Better Than It Is

We name them,

every last demon,

everything we fear:

from Alzheimer’s to oblivion

- some say they are the same end.

How can they know?

A slow sinking,

a mumbled goodbye,

or perhaps the name

of a childhood friend;

these are last moments,

his, hers, yours, mine.

We fool ourselves

the light at the tunnel’s end

is reflected in the eyes,

that there’s a momentary

coherence before they go.

Grievers look on,

as they always have,

always did.

Why should we tell them,

it is better than it is?