Undead

 
 
I died young only to live out my life
Buried alive in hardship and strife
Panic stricken and short of breath
I was forced to live out a second death
Standing on the banks of the River Styx
Speaking the language of the Aphasics’
A language the ferryman doesn’t understand
So for my pennies he gave me a handful of sand
After suckling at the dry teat of my mistrust
I was left with a mouthful of ashes and dust
I dug my grave, I made my bed
I live among the legion of walking dead
Emotional zombies, vampires and ghosts in sheets
Condemned to wander the soulless streets
To dance that ever long and lonely dance
To the music of our circumstance
Played on harps that have been unstrung
It’s the consequence of dying young
By T J Therien
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