The Living Dead by Chris G.

Posted: April 16, 2010 in Poems

My funeral was in the courtroom.

The judge was my priest.

He read my last rites and put me six feet deep.

Shackled us in the Hearst with a dozen more bodies,

headed to the mausoleum where it’s a dead man’s party.

Purgatorial preservation,

sensory depravation;

hating the aggravation that I’m constantly facing.

Pacing up and down in my cell,

bounce off the walls of living hell,

still shaking off the spell that was cast on me well.

I can’t tell what love or hate is;

don’t care what the date is.

Just call me when it’s time

and show me where the gate is.

A seven by eleven foot room

my cell is a tomb.

Instead of a rose, drop off a money order soon.

Out of sight, out of mind,

trying to climb in your head.

The prison’s a cemetery;

we are the living dead.

So whistle when you walk by

if you’re superstitious.

Cross your heart and hope to die,

If you’re dealing with them snitches.

and listen to the wind,

you might hear me again

on a full moon night

calling out from the pen.

by Chris G.

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