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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Black garments fall to the floor Boots off, cane leaned against the door Top hat lifts, welcoming them all A bottle of ketchup in hand. . . “Hello there,” He says to no one in particular Some eyes stare upward, looking frightened Pants slip off, skin tightened “They don’t even smell yet…” They will soon, I bet I stand there like a board In the shadows on my tip-toes I am caught…and yet, I’m not! Us morticians tend to see some interesting things But not anything like this. . . Black hand falls on the still, white faces Brushing against squeaky leather. . .rubbing flesh Gloves slide off to the ground I watch in disbelief without a sound Getting on the table with emaciated twins Feeling wind on his face as the death cart spins Slitted wrists rubbed with fingers in the crusted blood Smiling, he removes his hood Over them. . .ripping off their clothes Nose to nose. . .that so-called Eskimo pose Knife protrudes in view. . .entering within Then the real blade comes out, and the smell begins Why the hell am I watching all of this? Had I not come for one thing? I was just on my leave when I heard the rustling How used to the dead I am To even the sad, lone mourners, grieving in their roam My heart is stone cause it can’t bear to be alone Futuristic comforts and funeralistic empathy So well respected am I by the honest town folk No one would suspect a thing I didn’t suspect a thing But now, here he is and I am watching So stuck in the moment, simply gawking! I’m gagging too—hm, that’s new. . . Does he find it kinky, sneaking into an old mortuary— Imagining them screaming, squirting ketchup everywhere? I do think of calling As the blade moves in and out of them But my clouded eyes only stare. . . I clutch onto the diamond necklace, Imagining the dead, insipid flesh that once touched it And now how the cold chill of THIEF wraps around my neck They whisper it as he takes them all in Thief. . .thief. . .tHiEf. . .THIEF!!!!! Yes, surely she wanted the damn thing buried with her But how would she care? Hah! ‘Old Mrs. Longbottom’ now ‘Ms. Ketchupbottom’. . . Would my sin be covered by this sick tormentor of the dead? Handling those old, wrinkled fingers The smell of sweet and salty tomato lingers Thief. . .thief. . .tHiEf. . .THIEF!!!!! He was stealing nothing from them The dead cannot fight Cannot possibly feel Why then, does the glare gleaming in the dead woman’s eye Seem so real? He was stealing nothing from them The blame is all on me Strangling my neck
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