The Dead Know Nothing

Lift up your head. You can feel beaten down, But you are not beaten. The Dead feel nothing. Nothing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Bend the knee, feel the pain, But, you 'feel' the pain. The Dead feel nothing. Nothing. You have life. You have hope. You write the script, You are the Pen writing your story, Your chapter enlarging, charging, changing; Your life inking out pages in the Book of the Living. The Dead write nothing. Nothing. Let it rain! Let it snow! Come Hail fall! Come Wind blow! Let the sea ebb and flow, For I am here and these things are Mere--oh yes! Mere color in my day. The Dead know nothing. Nothing. Come sorrows! Come grief! Cheer will follow me, And hope, too. And before I dot my last 'I' or cross my last 'T', And while this Pen scribes his final chapter, My final sentence, My final word, My final syllable, That final stroke in that Book of Life, I will believe this: I am living, I am loving, I am doing What the Dead who know nothing, And do nothing Cannot.