Ghost In The Walls

Waiting,
Wailing,
Weeping,
Watching,
much and more was wasted here,
the meat all gone to moulder.
No more dreams to feed on here,
no coals left to smolder.
I have been dead for far too long,
far longer than I lived.
I focus on that one good day –
that shimmer in the sieve –
and at the hour when the moon looks down
the world admires her horrid frown;
I laugh and shriek and scratch my arms and
try to think up greater harms and
outside, outside, the snow lay silent
streetlights whisper:
the dead riot.

Heroes

Nations are built on the bones of their heroes,
who rage as they’re pushed to the grave;
with shrieking,
and striking,
and choking on earth
all before the foundation is laid.

Said the man at the fore of the black-banded crowd,
“I imagine it’s lovely to die as a hero,
draped by a star-spangled shroud.”