Day Of The Dead
Each day, a passing day, spent yearning for the after.
by Victoria Long
How much I wish to be with you,
How long must I be patient?
To have you here,
So close to me is all I’ve ever wanted.
Yet time cannot comply,
And distance is an issue,
Then again my parents fail,
To see the bond between us.
And friends provide no sympathy,
No means of pity thereof.
And here I am,
Bitter longing grasped within sweet waiting.
I recall the times we’ve spent together,
Hardly alone but public eyes somehow made it better.
How we roamed within the crowds,
Hand in hand during the midnight hour.
And stood awhile, lost and found,
Swaying to the music.
Then recall the silly passage-
From day to dusk then dawn.
And all the wicked eyes that stared,
At us as we past beyond.
The day was in celebration,
Rather the night in tune for joy.
To those have past,
We once again remember.
And although we were the strangers,
Among those so close to them who past,
I cannot regret to see the dead,
As though their time did last.
And you and me,
So happy to be there like reunited lovers,
Perhaps the dead had also found,
And left the cold for longing sorrows.