not hard to get to, just behind the shed--
where, if you go on moonlit nights and stand
an hour or two, in it you'll see the Dead.
Sometimes it's loved ones--lost kids, murdered wives,
and such as that--but mostly it's the shapes
of strangers, staring, envying the lives
outside, their eyes black marbles, mouths agape.
They never speak--they just stand there and sway,
and pebbles tossed won't make the shades disperse;
then, close to sunrise, they just fade away
to heaven, hell, or maybe something worse:
A black room with one window to the sky
through which the moon stares like a blind white eye.
Appeared in the early 08 edition of Aberrant Dreams.
No comments:
Post a Comment