With the Morbid

Death haunts me like a siren call,

Her tender fingers outstretching,

But the babies’ hands peeling

Back to torn and ragged bone.

With broken steps, I traverse,

Take the road that haunts its ghosts

And laughs a hundred-fold

For the foolish in the living –

Or the living, foolish.

What do they know?

So contingent in their prison;

With papery decent, the distant hail

Upon the full of face and barricaded:

Like solid rain in chills.

Those figures dare to trip around

My feet; as I wander in and out

Of unpleasant consciousness,

I am striding with the morbid.

Here and there again, the pathway

Is crooked, feeding the ill-thought;

Stricken, we both, mistress, meek,

Know not who is leading whom,

The broken strain of road ahead

Forever scarred the same way.

Together, one is only a part

Of the fractured whole,

An insane echo that coaxes,

Whilst harrowing my very ears:

It is a sweet death, simple.

The End

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