You Can't Die, If You Are Already Dead
The streets are quiet,
no waves left to break on the shores of the silent,
No blood on the curb to draw the stray dogs.
A stray wind blows through the darkest of alley's
like you it forgets where it was that you came from.
And the boarded up windows watch where it is that you've been.
Death doesn't care about your great name.
You think it was clean—
and as one door shuts, the other never opens.
But the dead don't lie still,
they rattle on in your head
when you bite down on all your immoral sins.
They creep through the purple walls,
Children eating lead paint,
Their brains soft as their forgotten prayers
grey hollowed out eye sockets.
You can't kill any of those dead,
but they can kill you,
if you would only but let them.
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