For a tangible thing, death is a norm.
Things that are made and born into existence,
Live their purpose and goes out with dignity.
And we bury them from our living.
We bury them but we do not forget.
Because a life that served a purpose,
Leaves a scar to everything it has touched,
And makes a memory live a lifetime or more.
And a memory either causes joy or pain.
It is those joyful moments that bring us
Nostalgic snippets of what we had,
Of what we will never have again.
Death comes like an alchemist of gold.
As it turns things that we often take for granted,
Into those that we would love to hold on forever.
And death is as surreal as an alchemist.
And death—like love or faith or promise,
Will always be unearthed with memory.
And we wonder how we could live forever.
