Leader of the Black Parade

Listening to one of my many favorites, "Welcome to the Black Parade", this first line locked itself inside my brain then took my hands hostage...

"I am the Bandmaster.  My name is yours."
He stood there, knowing I would give no response.
Though he waited, no, stood in silence beyond
where the floor of the hospital room became
a sidewalk of littered rubble and debris.

I looked to the doctors and nurses unsure
Of where I was and for some reassurance.
They offered none.  The care in their eyes now gone,
replaced by cold, empty black holes to nowhere
with pale grey skin underneath their smocks and masks.

Still unsure, I looked back to the Bandmaster.
A skeletal plume rose from his black helmet;
a gas mask covered his face.  He had no eyes.
His black band uniform was adorned with bones,
fingers for buttons, hands for shoulder boards.

He carried a mace of bones, a complete leg
from femur to foot, topped with a jawless skull.
His grey flesh gripped the femured staff by his side.
Finding no reason to remain, I sat up;
My bare feet grasped the black linoleum floor.

They stood the body in the hospital gown
and I walked out, joining the Bandmaster's side.
He raised the mace between us with open palm
and in taking it, I saw what I needed.
It was the answer with no question to ask.

We are in every where, every time;
we are every one and every one is we.
We are Oklahoma City, we are AIDS.
We are Vietnam and we are Gettysburg.
We are unnamed Thai villages swept away.

I looked down the road, Devastation Highway
and saw it was paved by those who carry on.
Approaching was the procession, the parade
and the grey faced old man left me to join it.
He entered the column and he became them.

And did I, take my place in the caravan,
leader of the broken, beaten, and the damned.
We marched solemnly, the throng of black and bones,
towards the city of silent, black destruction
and the dark horizon, frozen where it lay

We approached a faded grey wreck of a car;
and a man, his memory had carried on.
He approached, looking for questionless answers.
I looked at him, knowing he had no response
"I am the Bandmaster.  My name is yours."

Reviews

[Bethany Woody]

First I love the song too.
I think you have captured the essential meaning of the song in your piece, but I like how you took this all a step further and made it your story versus just another version of the song. I also like how yours is a bit more macabre, and almost nightmarish in it's telling. It really puts the whole concept of death and dying in perspective for a reader.
And even if a reader has never heard the song, I think they would still be able to relate to this piece.

[Mockingbird]

very macabre and chilling. you have a talent for capturing the visual aspect of your writing. this is something that could show up in my nightmares. it's great that your pen takes over. wonderful piece.