I wonder if the dead could write,
what poems they’d send back.
Perhaps they miss us too, and might
reciprocate the lack.
Perhaps they’d say it’s wrong to fret,
before the game is done,
that players sin when they forget,
to fill the game with fun.
Perhaps they’d say we shouldn’t fear,
the things we cannot know,
that were the bigger picture clear,
we wouldn’t worry so.
Perhaps they’d tell us if they could,
but they are not allowed.
Perhaps they’d tell us it’s all good,
beyond that baleful shroud.