Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2013
I was walking one day
Past the city
Into the shadows of our smoke;
The fumes of our cigarettes covered the trail
Until nothing became clear for me to see.
I bumped into an ancient looking man,
With green eyes that turned pale
And a wrinkled face
That was about to crumble;
I saw him cleaning up
A newly placed tombstone.
He was a graveyard man;
I look at him and suddenly
I felt the urge to ask him,
How is it like? Talking to dead people.
He didn't answer
But I continued anyway;
How is it like to look at solid stones?
And envision her tender eyes looking back
How could we mark he territory of the dead?
As if soil could surround our spirits
How could it suffice?
To point out troubles getting no advice
Questions with no answers,
And as you speak
You don’t know if you are being heard
But you continue anyway.
How is it like? Talking to dead people;
Salute the rocks under the carves,
Knowing that underneath
Lies not wood
But a person who couldn't as much as you could,
And even if he could, you don’t know if he would- come out and talk to you,
Because maybe he’s fed up?
Maybe when life takes too long
The sweet becomes bitter
And our friends
Become but anchors attached to our hearts
Pulling us down
Marking our spirits with soil;
Maybe he’s ashamed
Of the blood stains on his folded flag,
Of the- lose knots in his piece of cloth
And you’ll never discover that
But you still continue anyway
Asking your questions;
How is it like? Talking to dead people.
How is it like talking to anti-change institutions?
And, people with no purpose in life
And, violent illiterates who seek to ****
Because death should be passed on
How is it like talking to people that will not listen?
To the governments that will not bother
To the public blinded by the minor majorities
To the children stuck in their melodramatic attitudes
Over crowded with the propaganda of teenagery
To the hypocrite schools that teach but not educate
To the mothers who give birth
To a fruitful seed, but will not cultivate;
To a father that’s always late
To his son’s birthdays
Because his job appointments
Pointed in the shape of earphones
And circled in the shape of speakers
So it’s neither him listening, nor him talking
Its them.
But nothing will change,
Yet you continue anyway
Asking your questions,
Not for the dead,
But for the resting voices
Leaving you the space to think;
To answer within
Or decide to disregard,
Leaving space for you own voice to emerge.
And as I look back at graveyard man
He was gone;
As if his body de-synthesized as soon as I finished
And the newly placed casket;
Bared his exact size,
And the tombstone
For a second there represented his eyes,
And it didn't take too long, for me to realize
How is it like; talking to the dead.
MAJD S
Written by
MAJD S  Lebanon
(Lebanon)   
  1.3k
   Liv, KLD and Terry O'Leary
Please log in to view and add comments on poems