QUINCY DOMINIC WHITE

Here Among the Dead

 

Skeleton flying on the wings of a crow.

The soil is black.

The tombstones are decaying.

Unable to see the sun,

Because of the thick grey fog.

Here among the dead,

We reach through the dirt.

Worms crawl through the crevices in our bodies.

We rise toward the vast and fearful sky.

Here among the dead,

No one casts a shadow.

Night comes and goes without giving sleep.

Rain tries to cleanse us but fails.

It never snows here,

For nothing can be white except our bones.

Here among the dead,

A barely audible song rides the wind.

It repeats:

Come. Come. Come. Come.

We are

Coming to get you,

And bring you,

Here among the dead.

 

© 2024 Quincy Dominic White