Deafly Thinking

deafly thinking, steven humphreys, poems, poetry, prose

Arise and walk softly like dead men do

Straight into that terrible night

Follow them in the blackest tunnel of tunnels

There, lies the burning image of all things past

Where lights above pass quickly behind the corpse’s footsteps

Catch up to him fella, he walks slow enough

Tap him on his shoulder, he’ll turn around

But, he doesn’t speak anymore

He is deafly thinking…

For these ones walk so painfully, cracking their joints with each step

Walking and walking, limbs falling to pieces on the ground

Dragging his feet inside those lonesome decaying shoes

Look up to the clouds floating so alone

The billows running wild, stampeding like tall plumed horses

They hang on strings above the Cemetery

The moon shines through where clouds crack open pouring light blinding you to that which is unfolding before you

Look to the untold miles of green cornfields across the washed out road where rain drops as big as eyeballs slap the muddy ground

There, a scarecrow stuffed with straw with glowing eyes flops like a puppet on his pole in the wind

While things not seen nearby begin to move as soon as you look away, then become still when you look back

Listen carefully to the pin drop…

To the sound of a rope creaking, stretching, and swinging side to side with someone’s neck in the noose

Hear the fluttering Raven wings and squirming shuffling sound underneath the leaves below those tall trees over there by that first grey cracked tombstone

Rats scurry around with their long tails, while birds hop on branches in a bush preening themselves

On a dark night, it could be the sound of the rising dead digging up through the freshly covered mound of dirt packed down tightly by the caretaker’s shovel

All of humanity have forgotten the buried ones and how they lived their wretched lives

Now, scan the graveyard, man

Do it now!

Look to the left!

I told you before that there’s no good men who reside here

Look to the right!

There’s no criminals over there, either

All their sins were washed away when lowered down in the ground and covered up

Buried deep is punishment enough for their transgressions, whatever their fellow man suffered by their own hands

But now, there’s only the sleeping dead, everywhere, scattered all around encircling the both of us!

Careful, they don’t jump from the grave in our faces or grab us tightly by our ankles when we pass by their grave markers

All these souls are damned by the nothingness of their own company

Their earthly spirit lies cold unshaken, unknown

Yet, don’t you hear something scratching loudly quiet?

Scratching, clawing frantically like bloody nails on untold coffin doors

These underground sleepers; they cannot touch us no matter how hard they claw

And, when our time comes, it will come swiftly like the blade of the guillotine on our necks

With both our blood soaked heads rolling into a basket below

In the blink of a dead man’s eye…


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