The Dead Walk Among Us
The dead walk among us, unnoticed,
In the quiet hum of morning streets,
Their voices swallowed by the clatter
Of shoes on pavement, of coffee cups, of chatter.
Eyes hollow, yet glimmering with memory,
They linger in corners, in doorways, in echoes
Of laughter that no longer belongs to the living,
Tracing the lines of lives they once wore.
We pass them, blind to their shadowed presence,
As if grief were a mask we could wear without thought.
Yet they breathe in our rhythm, sigh in our sighs,
Whisper in the wind that brushes past our faces.
They do not haunt with terror,
But with quiet reminders:
That life is a flame flickering in the draft,
And time is a river carrying us all toward the same dark water.
So look closely at the crowd, at the strangers beside you,
For the dead walk among us unnoticed,
And sometimes, if you are very still,
You might hear the soft echo of eternity
In their silent steps.
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