She had gone to the Lord

She cried, when I was born.
I cried, when she had gone.

She bled, when I was born.
She bled, when I was torn.
She was torn, when I was bled
She was done, when I had gone.

She cried, when I cried.
She smiled when I smiled.
She cried, when I walked,
With joy, she talked.
She cried, when I talked,
With joy, she walked.

The stories she told,
Are the berries I hold.
The memories I hold,
Are the stories she told.

She kissed my cold skin
Soaked in blood when I was born.
I kissed her cold in the coffin
Packed in when blood is gone.

I cried, when she had gone,
With the dead, to the mud.
I cried, when she had gone,
With joy, to the Lord.

Write anyway...

To write always
Is right always.
The pain to write
Is the gain to read.
With pain, may ye write
the rites of our rights.
May ye gain then, time
that is your me-time.

Life of the dead

Taj Mahal was built for a dear dead
That made the world happy over a dead.
Plays, poems and prose were penned
Prompting the living to pen better lives.

The dead have died as no longer could
They lead life as dead before they died.
The dead have died after they lived
To lead the living to a life that is good
            For the dead could not live
            Forever, but the living could, until dead.