We Don't Burry Our Dead
We Don't Burry Our Dead: A First Post I am here. Alone. Quiet, and unquiet. This grave, Knocking, Rasping, whispers that are screams. I don't sleep the night. I'm fine and then I'm ruin. Nothing beautiful here. Can ruin be beautiful? Another day. Too timid to make the leap from the chair. I romance the rope from a distance. This cold distance. I am smoke over the mountains. Ignored. I live in her backyard. I dwell in front of those who think it's only a body. We don't burry our dead. I dwell. Who plants flowers in a Necropolis? Who sits with the dead and wrestles with a dead language....love. I'm above ground. No one buries the dead anymore. Don't look. Don't speak. Don't touch. I will stay in the shadow here, beside the masabah stones. They've placed a marker where I should be. The dirt isn't frozen. The shovel is by the door. I am here. I am still here. I am still always here.