The Life Beyond
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes
one long livid oozing plain
Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;
And waits; and once
in timeless sick surmise
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life
is in that land,
Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck
moveless horror; an Immortal One
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly
Fast-stuck in grey sweat
on a corpse's neck.
I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.