The Whisper

I don’t want to become a whisper.

I don’t wish to be the fallen breath.

I don’t take comfort from the vista.

I don’t know the reality of death.

I don’t like that their photographs yellow

But we speak as if they’ve never left.

I don’t understand how we don’t bellow

when their names our grace conversation,

asking for a time-splintered, final hello.

Let emotion beat your trepidation;

Remember him and miss her

with the passion of joyous exultation.

Their memories should rub like a blister;

I don’t want to become a whisper.

Swinging like a Bell

I anxiously wait

but in the morning I’ll know

my ultimate fate

and the direction I’ll go.

On Earth it’s decided,

and that is a shame.

I’ve spurned a chance provided

in the greatest of games.

Although all is not lost,

for I could yet ascend.

My soul has a cost;

but, God, money to spend.

And if He’s out of pocket,

then I’ll go straight down to Hell.

Please wear my face in your locket

once I’ve swung like a bell.

For now I am calm

dear, as in the morning we’ll know.

I will no longer harm

here, or in the place I will go.