stuck in our throats

are sounds of who we are

music that if sung

would cause flowers to grow

bring alive a dead life

shoot stars into our night

curb our courteous bowings

our groveling to be liked.

it's when tears slide free

round the curve of our jaw

with mem'ry as their guide

and accompanied by grief

we wistfully remember

the songs of our past

still lodged in our throat

and longing for home.

There's always someone smarter than you in someway.

Whenever death occurs, "whatever" doesn't matter.

We all pass our titles on to someone else.