One Moment, Please, for a word from the Dead….
It has been said that the Living
Have a tough time understanding the Dead.
No common points of reference.
And such is the case I find myself in.
I’ve been told I am too strident.
Take things too seriously.
Need to chill out.
They forget I am already ice cold.
Dead… cold. Icy calm. Can’t be angered.
Can’t be hurt. I’m already Dead.
Every day is a borrowed day.
Every tick of the clock,
One less second to try and make the Living
Hear the soft pitiable voices of the Dead….
The Living worry about the car payment,
What they will have for lunch. Or dinner.
If the rent is paid. The water. The lights.
What they’ll wear. Who they’ll meet with or talk to.
Which person or political party is in power at the moment.
They are still *living*, you see.
Perhaps only we walking Dead
Are close enough to the grave to hear that crying in the night.
The suddenly silenced screams.
That eerie sound of blood on a razor blade.
The muffled gunshots and the spattering sounds they produce.
The Living still play the game of Life.
One I and so many others are no longer allowed to play.
We have no more turns.
No more cards.
No more rolls of the dice.
No more *time*.
The Living took all those things away.
We wake to the sound of sobbing.
Voices crying out in the night.
Alone in the dark.
Struggling against the edge of the abyss.
Waiting for the helping hand that never comes.
My voice. Their voices. All seemingly silent to the Living.
14 people a day kill themselves to stop the agony.
Every day. In every state. Even more in some.
An ongoing charnel house of death and destruction.
Those loving souls ravaged and destroyed
By the simple lack of compassion or care.
Lost lives not even noticed by the Living. Not even seen.
Because they Died long ago.
And the Living can not or will not hear them any longer.
Until they also enter the razor-lined edges of the Realm of the Dead…..
The other Dead can hear them,though.
Understand them. See them. Weep for them.
All those other walking Dead….
All those crushed and hurting souls.
But one thing we Dead must eventually face,
IS our inability to block out those excruciating cries for help.
We can hear them clearly, all those midnight pleadings,
Yet cannot do much to help them.
Only the Living could do that.
We Dead cannot even help ourselves.
That is why we are Dead.
And so it goes.
Ego trumps effective advocacy.
Personal comfort overrides decisive action.
Fear or greed over-rides compassion and caring.
And the walking Dead be damned!
Even more so than they already are.
If that were even possible….
The day the pain killed me.
Finished eating me alive..
From the inside out.
Until there was nothing left but
A hollow shell of pain.
Every day since….
I sit my own wake.
Eulogize my own funeral.
And try somehow to reach the Living…
Urge them to help the almost Dead.
Before they all become like me.
I no longer hunger.
No longer thirst.
Barely even breathe.
I find myself holding my breath,
And deciding if I should take another.
And knowing that I now *have* that choice.
So I find myself in my chair,
Just listening to the varied screams in the night
That the loudest music no longer drowns out.
Counting the suddenly stopped voices.
And just being glad for them,
If I could feel gladness any longer.
I’m just too stupid…
Too tired to even lie down
And let the Living finally bury me.
And the Living can’t or won’t even hear me…..