Fear is a natural feeling,
A part of life
To be afraid of something in this world
Is not so farfetched a thought
Death, being hated, never finding love
All completely fair to be afraid of
But the irrational fears that some have
Simply never cease to amaze me
And let me inform you,
That this is a true story
A mother who stabbed
Her husband with a fork
At the dinner table
While the children watched
Four prongs pierced skin and veins alike
Blood showered forth
As ketchup from the bottle
The children were devastated to say the least
Now twenty two years later
That same little boy from the kitchen table
Sits in the restaurant haunted and alone
No date, no friends, no company
Eating his steak with a plastic spoon
He murmurs something about
Forks being a leading cause of death
What a sad and untrue statistic

Say nothing but good of the dead
As they were once your friends,
Or enemies, it doesn't matter.
In death lies no dishonor.

Say nothing but good of the dead
As they were once fellow workers,
Or leaders, it doesn't matter.
In death lies no classes.

Say nothing but good of the dead
As they were once our slaves,
Or masters, it doesn't matter.
In death lies no races.

Say nothing but good of the dead
Because they were once living people,
People like you and me.
In death they are beloved.

De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum

In the broken kitchen chair he sits
Weeping the tears of a killer
Face buried into the palms of his grisly hands
He sobs uncontrollably for he knows what these hands have done
He cries as a child might having seen his parents murdered
Gasping and struggling to draw in a full breath
Snot running from his nose, curling over the stubble of his upper lip
With a clenched fist he wipes this away
Rage building in his veins, hatred, and remorse
His face grows red as he shakes uncontrollably with anger
Unsure of what to do with himself he rises quickly to his feet
His chair crashing back to the floor behind him
He paces the kitchen back and forth
Feet padding monotonously over checkered linoleum
Suddenly, abruptly, he stops, his gaze drifting to the counter top
As he catches sight of the skinless corpse he screams
A blood curdling scream that chills to the bone
Unable to bare the sight of his disembodied victim any longer
He barrels out of the kitchen
Crashing through doors, splinters of wood marking his trail
In the bathroom he now stands
Sulking in shame before a ***** mirror, staring down at his bare feet
Slowly, he raises his head, eyes squeezed shut
Fearing to find what he might see when he opens them
He pauses here for several moments, collecting his thoughts
Breathing deeply, hoarsely, sporadically huffing
Mustering all of his courage, he makes this final leap, opening his eyes
In the mirror before him he sees all too clearly himself
Wearing a skin that is not his own
Face, hands, feet, all that are exposed
His own pale skin standing out in bold contradiction
To the beautifully bronzed hollow man that he wears
His pale and bony knuckles crash repeatedly into the face of the mirror
Over and over again the thud and the crunch
Broken skin and shattered glass
Blood now smeared across what little reflective surface remains
At last he can see himself no more
Slumping down into a ball on the floor
He sits alone and rocks
The mere shell of a man remains
With dripping hands he tears away a patch of flesh from his thigh
Groping the floor blindly his hand closes over a shard of glass
He is now far too numb to feel pain, dead inside
Gripping tightly to the broken glass this broken man begins to write
Carving his apology into his thigh

You could be the best tree climber in the world.
But sometimes, even the best need help getting back down.
A.C