Carved ghosts
above the charred scaffold
that we eagerly
built with our bone-hard belief
in who and how
and why and what we sincerely loved,
that day, the
world celebrated a new breath of life.
Unexpected it
plummeted upon our shoulders,
the gigantic
weight of this whirlpool of a nightmare
-our collective
tragedy, the dawning of deaths to come.
The world
glimpses the incoming death.
There are ghosts
there, uneasily scouring their ashes,
searching for a last
caress, the embrace of comforting slumber
searching for
love in between our walls of putrid rattle.
The world carries
the dead.
Behold the
dreaded vultures soar above
in wide circles
that wounded the sky and made it fall dead,
behold them
ravage those who agonized before us.
The world carries
the dead.
Hyenas lurk under
every shadow, poisoned by fever,
their eyes
bleeding, shredded by the abrasive desert sand
of this urban
desert, the god they rose on dry stone.
The world buries
the dead.
Watching,
laughing, hideously grinning, the beasts
feed on the black
hole that grows in us
-the
all-devouring void left behind by those departed-
as the world buries
the dead.
Like unfettered
beasts, golden clad clerics
suck and devour
tears fallen on ash and charred bones,
while planting
the seeds that bear fruits of my nihilism.
The world buries
the dead.
There is a great
mass of bones, tonnes of bones
on which a palace
stands crumbling in the growing tide
that brings
deliverance on scarred lands.
The world buries
the dead.
There is a
tremendous roar, a yell to drown their screams
and walls
crumble, and eyelids fall one onto the other
denying the
darkness, too afraid of the light it might shed
when the world buries
the dead.
Unto nothingness,
some erect themselves as saviors
destined to bleed
under our eyes’ ruthless scourge
for what
nothingness nourished will only return to nothingness
when the world buries
the dead.
Here we stand, in
tearful remembrance, broken and shivering
too frail to not
let the rapacious predators feed on our grieving hearts,
too weak to
crumble the statues they erect on our spines,
as the world buries
the dead.
Our mournful
laments echo in the empty halls
a reverberation,
a wicked vibration of our vocal strings
to which crazed
clowns dance as if ablaze.
The world mourns
the buried dead.
This endless
November rain falls on our heads and feet
washing the filth
that’s been plaguing our hearts
and leaving us
clean and cold before their open graves
as the world
mourns the buried dead.
Alone they went,
their souls carried to the shores of a stellar sea,
united we rise against
their requiem, united we stand
until no greater
storm comes, leaving us alone. To fall apart, again.
The world buried
the dead.
Still, the
tectonic plates smash against each other
and the sun
burns, one day closer to its great cold demise,
and the rivers
run and irrigate the plains and hills and mountains,
and the world
carries the dead.
