The Dead December 16, 2o15

This is an old poem, a dusty poem that brushed up a bit but not much. I'm not sure I posted it here. I looked but could find no evidence that I had done so. Let me know what you think.

The Dead

Dead. We are the dead,

tiny shadows lingering between
the narrow slit of eyelids closed.
Our words mumbling mournful things,
prayers, a whispered whimpering
so lonely darkness weeps for us.

We are the dead, vacant minds

burnt as a crispy sacrifice
crumbling toward the open grave,

sores bloom in yellow plumes,

a raving lunatic knocking at the door,
neatly tied up bound in every lie,
in every promise made and broken.

We are surely dead.

Apostles to the bone, the 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 . . . breathing in

a world that spewed us out
upon the dank Persian carpet
where mother lies bleeding,
receding from her life
in short agonizing gasps.

Dead, we are truly dead

from the moment we are born.
Woodie 1o-3o-14 (rewrites 12-16-15)