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From: "Robert Morpheal" <morpheal@yahoo.com>
Newsgroups: alt.surrealism
Subject: Poem: 120307A
Date: 12 Mar 2007 21:57:26 -0700
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120307A
------------
It was a time
of living outside of time.
as worms
among the corpses,
eating up deceased words
with growing disinterest,
ghosting in and out of sight,
writhing in the eye sockets
of close friends,
nearly trapped there
into confessions,
trying to find the way out,
from the ignorance
of gatherings of hollow men.
No one was really alive,
and no one was really dead,
but it would always be over
in an instant,
and no one knowing when.
There were multiple resemblances
to the living,
but no getting personal
with any of those lovers.
They would only cut away hair,
steal every ounce of strength,
and end it all
in a beheading the beast.
Romance was only about
finding a way out
from under the mushroom cloud
and everything else
was the perpetual mind field
where a careless stray thought
could explode everything
into a subatomic nothingness,
that many prayed for.
We ended up being priests
giving them all last rites,
while damning most of them,
to living again.
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