Grief (ii)

"Death and life are a friend," 

the old lesson keeps bludgeoning me.

Death ripples through the streams
and creeks that flow near the homes that depend on recollections. 

Each of these bricks used to be housed by fine architectures, 

now bound by white bands and prayers.

On the front porch, the most-welcoming wreath of carnations, 

which are enveloped by symmetrical stanchions, 

greets every person that comes through it. 

And I thought: if death comes near, 

then life is nothing but sprout of vine reaching its arms to a far cry, 

and never will it give you time to read every sentence death foretells.

In this house, it now gives homage to the days I could remember but never hold.

Here, I witness:

Candles are as still as my stiff existence, 

while the quietness of each life in the room screams.

The sympathies dress black and how
regrets strip my skin.

But how could a friend hurt you when they only visit you once?
That every gaze to the rectangular—which holds my dear roots—lasts centuries?
Shall I kneel to pray or shall I need you to raise me up? 

How many times does heaven hear yet never speak? 

And how God always takes the best,
Or shall I not doubt and just keep it as how they keep you wherever peace is?