The Living Dead

 

i cast no shadow at the feet of giants.

i am a deciduous tooth,

clearing a path for the coming bone.

i am not prepared to die,

as i am only just now learning to live.

like husk and claw

buried beneath brittle leaves.

i am merely in a season of abscission,

a subtle serpent shedding skin,

a sensuous, sacchariferous sacrament,

swallowed whole, 

sinking in the sludge and the silt

within the belly of a whale,

where the succubus and the seraphim 

both delight in the scent 

of saint christopher's sandalwood.

serenity, my brethren.

here today, gone tomorrow.

 

 

two coins for the ferryman, please.

place one upon my tongue, 

that i might spit it out and sail beyond.

place the other in my pocket.

perhaps i can buy a round trip.

i worked long and hard to earn that fare.

its hot downstairs and cold up top, 

i’d like to take a nap beneath this sycamore.

there is a slight breeze i might get lost in,

as an idle adventurer 

headfirst into the unknown,

daring the authors pen,

pages turn into breaking waves,

each one speaks of another coming,

until the sea is barren, 

the land cracked and dried,

looking for one last drink,

a grail to soothe these parched lips.

the only water now is the ferryman’s road,

which belongs to Hades

and he’s a real sonuvabitch.