Dead people never stop talking. Maybe because death is not death at all, just a detention after school. You know where you're coming from and you're always returning from it. You know where you're going though you never seem to get there and you are just dead. Dead. It's sounds final but it's a word missing with just ing. You come across men longer dead than you walking all the time though heading nowhere and you listen to them howl and hiss because we are all spirits or we think we are all spirits but we are all just dead.....
Living people wait and see because they fool themselves that they have time. Dead people see and wait. I once asked my Sunday school teacher, if heaven is the place of eternal life and hell is the opposite of heaven, what does that make hell?
A place for dirty Little Red boys like you she said.
She's is still alive. I see her, at the Eventide Old Folk Home getting too old and too stupid, not knowing her name and talking in so soft a rasp that nobody can hear that she's scared of nightfall because that's when the rats come for her good toes. I see more than that. Look hard enough or maybe just to the left and you see a country that was the same as I left it. It never changes. Whenever I'm around people they are exactly as I had left them, aging making no difference.
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Echoing Abyss
PoesiaExploration of the human experience, where the unseen depths of the soul are illuminated through the power of language.
