Long Lifeless corpse Poems
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I miss the colorful past.
I remember how it would blow past me,
encompass my entire being.
Its hues gave me hope,
made my chest swell with glee
when the pure lights danced upon my fingertips.
Until everything changed.
It was when it turned into different shades of grey.
When the memories created despair instead of joy.
They were drug along my skin, deeper and deeper,
leaving big, bloody gashes that wouldn't heal.
My retired dreams, dead right in front of me.
The dreams that had been reality,
now faded into my lifeless corpse.
My dreams, they were snatched away
along with the freedom to be with them.
It was when the sickness spread among us,
when we quarantined to save ourselves,
that I grasped onto my perfect actuality,
desperate to keep it safe, conserve it,
but it slipped through my fingers.
And so I was alone again.
Those dreams died out.
Dreams of real friendship.
Dreams of belonging.
Dreams of recently-found normalcy.
Dead, disrupted, dysfunctional dreams.
My painfully perfect, dreamy, recently retired reality.
The colorful, hopeful, clear past
is now ash that blows past me,
pieces tangling themselves into my hair,
bringing sharp pain instead of bittersweet hope.
Where did the blissful life go?
Will she return or is she gone?
Will she truly be dead forever?
Everything is bland now,
both memories and body.
We are lifeless.
I miss the colorful past.
THE REAL YOU
I went to the cemetery to the grave today
But there's only dry bones under the blades of grass
Your remains lying in the casket
Tissue skin muscle doesn't seem to last
As all matter eventually does goes back to dust
I know the real you
Was not who we knew
I know the real you
Wasn't in the view
Of a stiff lifeless corpse
Of a none speaking voice
The real you was/(is) heart, spirit, mind and soul
This is the real you
heart, spirit, mind and soul
And not those dry bones, dry bones
You are a borrower of time
Release for a season I'm not yours your not mine
For we all are borrowed sons and daughters from God
Here for just a little while, a little while
He's bless us to receive each a everyone to a due season
To be loaned not own for a moment a little while
Spent on this earth, that's cursed
This is God's business, His reason
Your remains lying in the casket
Of a stiff lifeless corpse
This is not the real you
You have escaped now the view
Is eternal worship and praise glory with the ..
All mighty Savior and God
As you praise in view
The real you
1/21/18
James Edward Lee Sr.
Streaks of pallid moonlight
wash over blood-stained
burnt umber leaf blight.
Glistening stainless steel remains
within wilting noir roses
and blistered blades of grass.
Sickening hands shake my repose,
heart racing, sure to collapse,
feeling faint.
A revolting nausea elevates,
trying to find restraint,
as madness deregulates.
A heart separated
from a lifeless corpse—
death awaits.
Flashbacks play like static reports,
too hard to get a clear picture.
Splashes of splattered red fill
spaces in between scriptures.
Screaming echoes spill,
dirty visions getting clearer,
as the sacrificial lamb
becomes the predator, evaporating fear.
Fighting for the blade, fingers clammy,
spinning out of control.
How could you bring me to this?
Steel cuts against palms, foretold—
splatters of crimson spray, don't resist,
covering fear-filled eyes.
One last-ditch effort:
grab the hilt and arise.
On this deadening night, collect.
You became Samhain’s sacrifice,
a feast for the demonic nether, sanctified.
Hopkins just fumed, and dove for his iron,
Bud’s gun barked, and he fired right then,
The Pinkerton’s charged at the gunshot,
And stared down on the lifeless corpse of Hopkins.
“Sorry I could not get him for you alive,”
Was all Bud said when they looked on the scene.
“You’ve got your man, you’ll get your reward,
but there is some place else that I have to be.”
The very next morn bud arrived at the ranch,
and found Henry working out in the corral,
he said,”I thought about the things that you said,
there’ll be no more trouble from Hopkins now.”
Henry drew near, stared down the young man,
Said,”Well at least now you might have a chance.
But it doesn’t explain what you’re doing here,
why you dared to come back here again?”
Bud just frowned, said,”With things how they are,
I need to find myself a living, of course.
You gotta big spread and I thought maybe
you could use a man who can break a horse.”
Henry went silent for a very long time,
then rubbed at his chin, deep in thought,
“And were I to hire a man like yourself,
how can I ever be sure what I’ve got?”
Bud swallowed hard, and said to Henry:
“If you doubt that my words are sincere,
Then I’ll work my first year for just room and board,
To prove to you that I want to be here.”
Henry just smirked as he heard the words.
“How ’bout I start you out at half-pay.
You give me six months without a slip up,
then I’ll know the truth in what you say.”
Bud shook on it, could not help but smile,
but then Henry said one more thing:
“Also, you’re not to make eyes at my girl,
until I decide that she’s an age for courting!”
THE VAN GONE MUSEUM
A gleaming, extravagant building.
Filled with jewels of art.
The brainless herd pile in at
their allotted time slot. No thoughts
Zombie tourists flock into the Van
Gogh museum. It doesn’t matter
how many nationalities are there.
Everyone does the same.
Observers drone from one gallery
to another.
Their eyes not even focusing on the
painstaking art.
The portraits and landscapes stare
back at the viewer in
disbelief and disgust.
Please comprehend what I am.
The constant shutter of a camera
can be heard but not the slightest
intellectual thought can be even
fathomed amongst them.
Those photos they taken cannot
even echo the detail of the brush stroke
or slight colour difference.
They are a false facsimile at best.
The painting now a lifeless corpse.
A digital copy is what remains on a
seldom used SD card.
Never to be looked upon again.
A gravity trudges the cattle toward
the famous sunflowers ; not for
artistic merit but for bragging
rights and social media selfies
Although Van Gogh is long dead, it
seems apparent his legacy, his art,
his life’s work is now
Van Gone….
At daybreak I feel relieved
Though at night I long for more violence
Only at dusk I fear for I know it is coming
Coming for me no not for me for it is me that is coming out to unleash that anger of which one holds inside
I am of evil and I am the darkness in the night I am the cruelty that comes as the sun has finished setting
My anger rises and so I let it loose
I break the chains that I myself fastened in hopes for me to not get away
Ravenous that is what I am
I stalk the weak child that is lost in the night searching for safety
And when that moment comes when he cries out in loneliness I give him my god-forsaken company
I snarl at laugh when I see the fear in his eyes
Then I put him out of his misery
Slashing at his throat I come to realize That I for one know his pain and so in his pain I plunder
The moment comes when I see that this child was mine
But that moment was too late for in that moment all I can do is stare at the lifeless corpse in front of me
Just another soul I've taken to add to my punishment of being damned for all eternity