A walking cadaver feasting yet never full. Hollow sunken cheeks. Fetid breath. Mortuary bones clacking like castanets signal
a dirge for a being hanging onto life yet bound for the grave. More specter
than man. A rambling absurdity. Vultures patiently await thy final fall. Ye
reek of the morgue. Thy entire body festers as a gangrenous wound. He beckons! He beckons! Rub him down with
frankincense and myrrh! Ready thy flesh
for winding sheet and cooling board. Turn back all covered mirrors! Face thy head to the North Star. Every road
ye tread leads to the crypt. Thy Tomb awaits thee and bids thee step in.
The smell of death accompanies thy uprising and approach. A stench emanating from thy despoiled core
lingers in every room. Onlookers vainly
swing their heads in disgust trying to dislodge tastes of putrid flesh invading
their tongues. Youth and health have been dispersed to the gale like leaves
whipped by the windstorm then fallen to soil. Leaves decomposing returning to
the earth from whence they came. No
potions, brews or concoctions from Ye Old Apothecary Shoppe can save thee now. Threescore
and ten shall not be thine for the Fates are poised to cut life’s cord.
The Pale Horseman rides for thee. This night thy soul is required. Ferry passage has been booked and Charon
awaits you dockside for thy journey across the River Styx. Once shiny obsidian bursting with life now ye
become dusty white-grey urn ashes. A
tree that once stood tall in the forest has fallen never to rise again. Strong saplings are pine boxes for many
Potters Fields.
Once to the bazaar now to the funeral. Maggot courtiers await the beck and call of thy
rotted corpse. Hypnos wicked opium dram shall deliver thy harvest ready soul
gathered unto Thanatos sickle and scythe.
Journeys fueled by alcohol, cigarettes and sugar end much too soon. Yonder
cemetery will be thy new home.
[DEBORAH PALMER]
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