What Dies While We Live

Something in us dies early—

quietly, without ceremony,

like a beam giving way

in a house we never inspect.

Behind the polished gate 

of our practiced smile

sits a mausoleum:

hope cooling on a slab 

faith thinning like a vine

that no longer climbs, 

love—once a bright animal—
breathing shallow
in the dim corner

We hide the rot.

We dress it in small talk,

nods at work,

laughter at dinner.

We lie to family

to keep the peace,

to friends

to keep the image,

to coworkers

to keep the job,

to ourselves

to keep moving.

Every lie is a funeral.
Every silence is a burial.
Every forced smile
is a wreath hung
on an unmarked grave.

Still, we speak—

the right tone,

the right season,

the right performance.

But conversation cracks,

trembles,

smells faintly

of something once living

now refusing to stay buried.

Death is not the greatest loss.

The greatest loss is the slow,

private dying

of the parts we swore

would never fade.

And unless we turn inward,

name the bodies,

open the gates,

death will catch us—

not at the end,

but in the middle,

while we are still

pretending to live.

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 13, 2026