The Dead, March 19, 2o15

Another poem that got lost in time, rediscovered a few days ago, rewritten and . . . well, posted here. It is a rather bleak poem  . . . stylistically, a lot like Welcome to the Freak Show but looking to give it a bit more of its own flavor. Let me know what you think.

The Dead

 

Dead. We are the dead.

Mere shadows lingering between

the narrow slit of closed eye.
Our words mumbling mournful things,
a whispered prayer, a whimpering
so lonely the darkness weeps for us.

 

Dead, we are the dead.

Vacant minds burnt, sacrificed

slithering toward the open pit.
A crowish smile pecking at our wounds,
The mourners gathering like moss
on the north-side of the abyss.

 

A multitude of sores bloom in yellow plumes,

the raving lunatics are knocking on the door.
Neatly tied up bound by promises
and that old liar hope, we wiggle on the hook
believing ourselves ruthless sharks
never knowing that we’re nothing but  bait.

 

Yes, we’re surely dead.

Apostles to the bone, the mortal breath
adrift on streams of unconsciousness;
we drown in chaotic harmony
with all those other souls grasping
at malignant straws . . . they do not float.

 

We are the dead . . . sucking in a world

that spews us out upon the dank Persian carpet
where mother lies a bleeding,
her empty eyes receding from her life
in short agonizing gasps
her broken fists grasping at the thinning air.

 

Dead, we are the dead

from the day we were born.
Woodie 1o-3o-14 (rewrites o3-17-15)