With the Morbid

Sometimes I know what it is that I fear: the cold extending hand. Playing with such a fire burns hard.

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 descent, 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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