They Didn't Ask: What's After Death

They didn't ask: What's after death? They were
memorizing the map of paradise more than
the book of earth, consumed with another question:
What will we do before this death? Near
our lives we live, and don't live. As if our lives
are desert lots disputed by the gods
of real estate, and we are dust's bygone neighbors.
Our lives are a burden to the historian's night: "Whenever
I hide them they come into my view out of absence . . ."
Our lives are a burden to the artist: "I paint them,
then I become one of them, and fog veils me."
Our lives are a burden to the general: "How does blood
flow from a ghost?”          And our lives
should be as we wish. We want to
live a little, not for any thing . . . other than to respect
resurrection after this death.          And they quoted,
unintentionally, the philosopher's words: "Death
means nothing to us. We are and it isn't.
Death means nothing to us. It is and
we aren't."
Then they rearranged their dreams
in a different manner. And slept standing!