It was as though I had died too,
Encased in wood; set a flame.
A pile of ashes headed for the grave.
The dead have it easy, you see.
Their lives left for the living to unwind,
Dead ends leading nowhere,
Unfinished stories of a muse sick author,
Left hanging on a single word, a single line
“And then she breathed her last breath, before”
“Before the girl rose from her slumber”
Because I never died, I merely fell asleep
Only to reawaken to find the world had left me behind.
Your story cannot be built on the lives of the dead.
They can’t fill the book that is your own
Because that tome is yours and yours alone.
I found the page where I left off that day
And readied my pen.