The Dead

The dead serve a purpose, you know

They make for the crutch that feeds the strength of the living

We eat their gravestones

And steel ourselves against the dirty drizzle

Of two yards of earth feet upon a coffin

Rope the undead from patient temporal slumber

Wringing out the stains of blood soaked hell

Before seeding the seething maggots

In soil tilled from the forest of naught

Whilst crying the tears of despondent rigor mortis

Blood let the leper’s tongue,

Razor the standing ovation

Map the byways of Dante's first ring

Buying Satan the first drink

If this is the inferno

Make it clear you won't leave of yet

Whisper in the ear of the grim reaper

That you’ll meet him later

© 2008 Eugene Aarons-Cooke