vrijdag 17 juni 2016

One of the Walking Dead



(Old poem, new verbal arrangement)

If I don’t feel the warmth of the sun
On a sunshiny day,
If I'm too numb to feel
My feet on the ground,
Even when I’m stamping them
Till there's a hole in the soil,

What am I but one of the walking dead?

Even if I don't see the maggots wriggling
In my muscles and digging holes through my bones,
Still I can't feel the loss
Of the falling skin and the melting marrow,
They are but a mask to camouflage,
A harness of decay, a cape to conceal

That I'm but one of the walking dead.

Build me inside the wall till I die,
Deprive me the air that makes me walk,
Limping as a crumbling corpse
On the rhythm of my soulless heart,
Then I'll scratch my name with my own blood
On the back side of the bricks of that wall,
Together with a curse that holds me inside forever,

Because there's only one black thought
That chews like a raging rodent through my darkened mind,
Because I'm now one of the walking dead,
And it’s burning in my lifeless eyes,
It's the never satisfying hunger for:

'Human flesh!' 


© Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere


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