when a wake is impossible because the people are too different and just would not talk

it is midnight, and the tree roots
have grown over the faces of the ancient statues
of power and strength, and faithfulness.
 
at the table, cards folded in hands
the two sat, unblinking, unmoving, speechless
amidst little half-empty glasses of shots.
 
the light flickered, unresolved
gleaming on the horizons where what was
met the state beyond drunkenness.
 
the roots, covered by dirt and moss
pried deeper for purchase, dislodging the little 
boxes of bias from their places.
 
the flow of time ticked away
in a hair-tearing regularity, the only momentum
for lonely pain, conserved
 
by the unworded, unshared certainty
that we, too, shall die, and leave those after us
burdened with memories.
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