Speaking of the Dead – by Zombie Zak
The dead speak, of many things far and wide.
Of things that live and things that fall off the edge.
Withered things and things broken and tired.
Terrible sights they have witnessed and gathered
Deep within the sorry state of their souls.
The words of the dead are often spoken in hushed tones.
With all of the colour bled out of them, silent in their tomes.
One could wonder all that they like about their tenor;
But perhaps one should be better concerned
With what the words have to say about them.
Death, like love, unfurls once upon the soul
And thence upon the earth.
And Time, takes no notice in the least.
Speak not, for the shadows know what you seek,
And spill upon the sand, lost and forgotten memories
Dripping with portent and possibility and fragile motes.
The mindless insanity, of time’s improbabilities
Work at odds against the current of living a life.
Random is the chaos layer at work, a splattering of thought,
From where words come from, unscathed by horror.
What word wouldst thou like to hear? Something sharp?
Something of the past, of the future, of the distant of the near?
Speak softly, for the dead just might want to reply.
Psychological terror, pulls out its smiley head and begins to unfurl …