The Living Dead

The page is filled, the inky well runs deep,

the cup of vision overflows for want

of dreams to wrest the ghost from deathly sleep,

to animate the carcass–rigid, gaunt–

from eons passed in stillness, stiff and dry,

reposing on a vain and arid mound

and waiting for a reason for to cry,

to shake and make a mournful, rasping sound.

The fuel to be my pyre wants the same,

a spark to give my funeral a start,

a burning bit, an ember, to inflame

this tinderbox that is the living heart.

Each day I live, I die; no tear is shed.

I write my eulogies to wake the dead.