The dead come

to call:

 

looking spritely

they bring the best

 

of themselves

stay to talk,

 

the sort of things

one says in dreams.

 

Here, immersed

in life; corroded

 

by the years,

it seems

 

that death’s

a living dream

 

a time warp

of each reality

 

the Wurlitzer turns

its own obscurity.

 

The dead come

to call: they bring

 

messages:

 

‘’write them down

don’t forget

 

you are the words

you leave behind

 

in other’s heads’’.

 

They who are

released,

 

have their new

songs,

 

not remembered

nuance,

 

nor ecliptic tune,

 

but wisdom

dearly bought

 

from passing

through

 

that final

country.