The dead have had it, tired of being
used for rhetorical effects—the wind,
the dark, the silence. It's not cold out there
for them, and gestures through smoky windows
look ridiculous through the trees that appear
to be on fire with the lamps of the New Year.
They look in at the shadows we'd have them be,
disappointed that we feel so melancholic over them.
It's tough in the state of annihilation but the living
have it much harder, trying to train themselves
to dance on air. Forget it. It'll be second nature.
The music will be so perfect no one will hear.