I’ve struggled much more today
So much more than I expected
Called by your flat for our Sunday chat
To ensure you were not neglected.
Instead you lay still, stock still
In a strange and foreign bed
A silken sheeted haven
a cot made for the dead
You should be stirring up a storm
your words, a robust dissent
that turns convention on its head;
as death tries to make you relent.
Will you hear me midst the silence
that now subdues the sound?
calling life to question
will you live beyond the ground?