The dead has been canonised

Where is the sense in that?
Where is the sense in loving and leaving?
Where is the sense in pulling yourself up...
Root and body
Leaves and hair
Sap and blood
Bark and bones?
Where is the sense in being human?

The flesh revolts at the new touch,
Squirms and shrinks,
Terrorised that the touch will unleash the horrors of the past.
The lips that are parched,blood oozing from the broken vein
Can never kiss glory.
The eyes of the dead haunt the living.
The afternoon dressed in a shroud
The night stifled in the coffin
The dead has been canonised.