Ode to the Living Dead

 

To every smiling face we raise a glass.

These demons troubling us about our past.

These lawmakers of some forgotten world,

Tell us false stories we've already heard.

We rest their memory on this sill tonight.

Aware they are of tolling on our minds.

Our sipping cup's a hyssop dipped in wine.

And we will not go out before the chime.

The fire of passion dwindles down to hate,

For every cruel injustice settled late.

The crackle of a laugh that thinks it knows,

The workings of a land not from the grave.

 

Begone foul faces botched by endless thought,

For ones who breathe see theories cracked like lips.

We know your ruse, the guise that guides the plot.

We politely spurn a place in your abyss.

 

Does wet blood warm the dry blood? 

In time stilled dark we make a toast.

To all those frightened living,

Who did not rush to meet their ghosts.