Shorting The Dead
Restless, unknowing, turned away
Convinced that nothing much was real
Anguished, angry, telling lies, wailing
You always said it was a clean machine
But it's all iced up now. Can't bear to know
Every night was shivering while you slept?
Will you, won't you, will you quite forget
How things are done by faces that are gone?
At thirty, it seemed enough, even rather normal
The loved ones, the suffering, the dead stuff
You held your own head like a cantaloupe
And you hoped, when it was not glorious.
© 2011 Rob Schackne
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