No. 7

Light it.

I dare you.
Drag that match,
watch it flicker and explode into life –
and suck up the sulfur stink,
get used to it.

That’s what the dead smell like.
Nauseating stench, corpses give away decay
like creepy old men that give away candy.
they cant help it. The dead, or the creepy old men.
Do you like what you see?

Come closer, the dead don’t bite.
Their jaws have been sewn shut from the inside.
A weird metaphor, really. Forever silent.
Maybe that’s why ghosts only moan.
Trapped in a lock-jaw limbo.

Sunday best, pulled over the dead.
Painted nails. Treated eyes.
Open casket beauty contest. For those that
get found, in time for the ground.
But those that wonder, that never went under…

Like the forgotten whores.
The lost children.
The aged that were loved by no one.
They speak.
They move about in a paralell
grief, limited only by what they can see.

I light my mandarin candles, and cast shadows
from today’s page or sage scented vanilla lined
words to be said on salted floors…  away from
the mirrors. The scissors, and the darker corners.
I don’t mind visitors, I just mind the noise.
The tention
when you mention,
moving on.

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3 thoughts on “No. 7

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