Words are dead like you now.
Dead like lungs that won’t breathe
Without a ventilator:
Sad COVID ridden bags
That don’t mean much when burnt,
Despite all the roads travelled,
Despite all the lessons learnt.
Eventually, they lie on paper,
Like dead lungs in plastic,
Left for those who may read,
If it falls within his creed.
Ultimately they are dead leaves,
Hanging on some dead tree,
For ghosts and strangers meaning
Nothing to you and nothing to me.