It’s quite a thing for us to have
A beating, working heart
To inhale, exhale, inhale again
As you fall spectacularly apart
For when you die according to
Any book I’ve read
Your heart goes still, your lungs deflate
To be considered dead
You shouldn’t feel the pulsing blood
Flow warmly through your veins
You shouldn’t walk and talk and think
Or feel such intense pain
There’s something so poetic
In being the walking dead
To be murdered so profoundly
On such an inconsequential bed
As dignity fell to the ground
Like a whore takes of her clothes
Your body somehow betrays itself
And completely and utterly froze
So while you lay there dying
Your heart remains so strong
Your lungs- they keep on breathing-
It’s as though there’s nothing wrong
When the killing is finally finished
When the deed is finally done
The world slowed and hastened all at once
Into confused, oblivion
For how can you be breathing
When your life has come to an end?
When you’ve been so completely broken
There’s nothing left to even mend
But get up and walk you do
And inhale, exhale you must
Because, unfortunately, your heart must stop
For you to turn to dust
Like a ghost without the benefit
Of being properly dead
You inhale, exhale, all the while
With that memory in your head
Being undead hurts and numbs your
Senses simultaneously
And your wounds bleed out in places
No one else can feel or see
Wake up, inhale, exhale, sigh
Pretend the same you still exists
But that girl is dead and gone
Even though her ghost persists