The atheist, too, remains able to honour the dead.
Visit hallowed places, facing the casket and questing,
the concrete presence of the particular place, to remember
The chances of life and its radiance challenging all…
These paths, call them atoms, bombarding and flying to exit,
are made from the fields and the force that surround and support them.
And their resting place too, can create its own pull, its own pulsar
which can send those so near it to fly into deep-thought and darkness
spur the raw thoughts, and the frame change to alter the core.
We honour an arrangement, continuing its physical trajectory
by placing our bodies to mediate humanities lore…
Barely under the surface, dark movements, the chemicals
guide potentials to work and the material echoes which sigh…
Surrounded by white-stone, skin stretched and face left as an imprint;
twin dark shadows and the mouth which supported the thing.
The ripples fell out, and curling their tendrils about us,
bring us back to return them so close to the bright path which sent them –
now dim in the grave where its dull glow makes us into rays.
We worship ourselves, in a reverence, humility, and pray.
Wordless, we wait, and bask in celestial company –
falling silent, the mark of the stars which remain all too distant,
is our heartbeat, our faith in the real, and our thoughts – we reclaim.
A body, its myth and its history, charged with emotion…
Our tears thus held back, our earth, our hope, our revery,
stood holding our soft inspiration close, and developing
the state of our souls – our love – our plans and our treasury;
the quiet potentials of the human mind, sparkling
in the tomb of our old friend, or those who we never knew.
We are open to past lives, accept their gifts, and renew.