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Up From the Dead
Dead, Dead.
Decay and rotten flesh,
melting beneath the scorching sun.
Worms, maggots, and flies-
a parade in time with the vulture's drum.
Teasing, tearing, ripping this way and that, dashing, splashing like an artist painting madness.
Bumblebee, whisper to me:
Am I dead...or just asleep
in the scariest dream?
No...
I can't be dead.
I refuse to be dethroned.
Oh death, you have no sting.
I have clipped your wings.
A man of all seasons,
I fight in every round.
Knocked down...
but rise before I hit the ground.
Yeah, I am not dead.
Copyright ©
Karl Goulbourne
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