soft grumbles

shards of broken glass
lie in the dust pan
ready to be thrown away,

books read ferociously
rot on shelves,
gather worms unnoticeably
after being soaked
in a recent flood,

a partly burned photograph
sits on the floor
amid shattered frame
fallen from the wall.

these are all gone
but they wouldn't care.

What was left are
unused wheel chair
resting beside empty bed
now kept clean to store
perhaps to keep one’s memories

It is the living who mourn
for the dead,
it is they who suffer the loss
while those who have departed
would not dare to care