On Being Dead . . .

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I slept and dreamed
I was the last one alive
in the land of the dead . .
and the ghostly voices
of others passing my by . . .
grieved over the perfidy of the hand
dealt when they were young. . .
wondering what is life

I slept and dreamed
that I was dead
and there was no comfort yet
my soul unrested and lost
wandering beneath leafless trees
no covering for my head
no moon to reflect
on the naked flesh . . .

I dreamed I walked
on emptied darkened silent streets
the corpses of others
enshrined behind doors
where a cold fire
told them they yet lived . . .
I could feel their dusty bones
crumbling beneath my feet . ..

I dreamed the burning rain
washed over me
touching the steel of my core
melting the bones of
my existence
creating a black hole
in the emptiness of my existence . .

I dreamed I died and laid
alone in a cold stone grave
my bones withered by the scorn
of those who passed me by
reading my stone words
surviving on the fringe
of nothing and nothing more . . .
"what is life . . ."

I awoke from my dream
and laid still in my box . .
deep scent of moldy earth
deep coldness of darkness damp
a nothingness in my vision
the taste of stale dust . . .
on my shriveled tongue . . .
what is life . .. .

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