poetry

The Living Dead

We are dead

Merely walking in circles

Awake, Asleep, Asleep, Awake

Round and round

Bound to places,

Wound around people

Tied to things

It’s a grave out here

They come, they rule, pissing on our tombstones

Slandering our epitaph

With their own colors

While we are digging the dug, even deeper

Pouring more concrete

Playing monopoly in the graveyards

With the highest bidder 

Painting saffron, red and green

They mark our resting places

slaughtering our children

And they worry about animals

Desecrating our women

They worry about our reserved spaces

We don’t feel, not anymore

They slander us

The dead are evil they say,

while they leave the dead to die

For the dead dig their graves, even deeper.

The communist grows on our ruins

Thicker and deeper

In the forest of ruins

And they paint us in red now

But they are dead too

They have been dead before us

Now they feed on our carcass

Pretending to be alive

Claiming lands as their own

Proclamations hailing a fascist leader, a piece of land

And an imaginary mother,

But my mother gets no land 

 or get out they say

But they need us

While turning our fertile lands to graveyards

For we dig the graves that

They shove us within

We are all dead in our way

Successfully crawling out of her womb

Into a straight dive 6feet under

All of this an act

For if we were alive,

we wouldn’t be unfazed

But we have been dead for so long now

All of us are the living dead.

3 thoughts on “The Living Dead”

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