In life's grand play, a paradox we find,Why are we friends of the dead, not the kind?The dead, silent, still, command respect,While the living yearn for a connect. Gold poured into the silent mouths of the dead,Yet, from the living, it is often withheld.Monuments built for those who've passed,While the living struggle, their lot cast. Perhaps it's easier to befriend the dead,No demands, no inconvenience, stories read.But the living, they're an unfinished book,A tale that needs compassion, a second look. So, let's question this paradox, this preference,For the silence of the dead, over the living's reference.Remember, every coin spent to save a life,Is an investment in a story, cutting through strife. In the end, we're but actors on life's stage,Not the grandeur of our exit, but performance engages.We're more than the sum of our past years,Ready for the future, with wisdom that endears.