The dead are selfish

Sometimes you meet them,
in real life or in our dreams.
The kind that catches
a butterfly, to watch it die.
They never talk about love,
or a Murakami plot.
But like to shout
“Get out! Get out! Get out”.
As they throw your clothes
and poetry books, into
a late-night street.
Then, they refill a new bottle –
and can’t remember
what they said last night.
But around me,
starlight comes tumbling.
And those yellow arms
that shielded me then,
shield me now
With my words
welling and swelling,
there is new hope.
I rise, you rise and we all rise.

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