Skeletal trees loom
Like old fathers, emaciated.
The dead walk the streets,
And wind pierces flesh.
There is no snow;
The sky could buckle
From the weight of the clouds,
Smothering you with their
Stark white, dense light.
A shuffling row have eyes like lead,
And their skin is grey and beaten.
Their presence is a weight.
Rows and rows, like sardines
Packed without air.
Shrug it off.
They'll dissolve soon enough.
They'll be washed away
By the coursing river of time.
Why act when you'll have forgotten
By next week? The sun will rise
Tomorrow, why interrupt or
Stamp your foot in the stream?
Avert your nervous eyes,
Cling onto something without consequence.
Swallow orders like pills,
Let them envelop you,
Until your mind is a vessel
And the images presented to you
Are the host.