Dead Stars
Voices of the dead , speak ( to me ) first , in silent whispers , then , I turn up the volume on the audio , and I can hear loud and clear-beckons from the beyond . Wails , that clutter the Universe — sounds like cats in heat competing for a mate . It ' s a miracle any of the dead are ever heard again . Lost in space , like moon-heroes Buzz and Neil , who no longer dream of getting dust on the welcome mat of the World . They ' ve all traversed the stars , now know what it feels like to be nothing but a memory . I strain to listen to the tip-toe through the tulips — theme music for the masses . Dead poets couldn ' t write a bitter-better eulogy , or count all the years spent pondering death . And too soon , far too soon , this too , will happen to you . But I don ' t have syphilis or cancer or clots on the brain . My heart still beats to the rhythm of boys and girls ( as it always has ). The Prince of Pop music now knows death , like Zsa-Zsa , is famous for being famous . It takes no special talent , just being in the right place with the wrong man will do nicely , thank you . Perhaps all these voices of the dead carry the same tune , like static on the radio , daring me to find some other station I ' d rather listen to . Someday soon ' something else ' will be more intriguing than news-flashes of new obits shocking us into submission . And this , then , will surely be a force to be reckoned with .
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