Lying down there, stiff and cold,
He tells me stories new and old.
He tells me things he shouldn’t know,
He tells me as his muscles show.
He tells me through his rotting face,
He tells me of a special place.
He tells me how to get in there,
He tells me why and how and where.
He tells me of the things I’ll find.
He tells me how to kill and bind,
The things that ate his hopes and dreams.
The things from which all darkness streams.
The things that live down in the earth.
The things that writhe and still give birth.
The things that smell of retched death.
The things that give off rotted breath.
The things that used to be like me,
The things that I will soon set free.
[© 2006 Greg Bunch]
1 comment:
Wrote them all in about an hour and a half. It was the only writing I seemed to be getting done that day, so I just went with it. Somedays you just have to write what's there and not worry about how it is or isn't useful. I tried again the next day, but nothing useful of the same variety came out.
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