Life and Death of the Living Dead

This poem is about the effects that someone once had on me and the extent to which I was affected by that person - almost like being in a state of limbo.

Vermin am I as I lay,

Feet up and soles wasted

For walking on coals

As the fire lives upon my skin

And in Death, I am wrapped.

 

The glint in my eyes glistens

Under Night’s sky. And cries

The baby, bereft of tears,

For Death harms him when

He my scorched grasp does feel,

Like Demon of Dead Valley,

He writhes in wrath, and

Squirms the brat, for my

Love detested, neglected and rejected

Back upon my half dead face spat.

 

Made a Sceptic am I,

Bestowed on me by those

Fickle living saints, and overturned off

Life’s highway, Demon saints! as

Weirdly wandering, like a leper, is my forced

Conquest of that be-Deviled Satan!

 

Craved for communion, acceptance a joke does this lonely jester cry.

Starved of hope, like rising sighs above once Sea of Tears, sanded-ripples dry.

Coerced was I, bane of living essence with my crinkled organs and disheartened body, needed to pry.

 

Destined am I, Bringer of death, clothed and coated in the skins of dead gods,

Pitied and de-pitted of life, abide will I to die.

Reviews

[Robert Haigh]

A harrowing write. Your feelings spill, with vivid expression, onto the page. I trust you are at a better place now in your life. Writing can be cathartic!

[DevKass92]

Thank you for your thoughts. Part of this poem will always be with me, but yes I am in a much better space now, thank you. And I completely agree: writing is as every much cathartic as it is therapeutic.