This is the living. These are the dead. One on each side of a thin, thin line, A track of mustard seeds, a symbol, The faith that tomorrow will come, The blind courage that allows us To live on each day, though we are close, A leap away from the other side, Where all is darkness and damp, A fete of maggots, the diet of worms, The silent vigil of ivory, brightly grinning.
Tip-toe, tip-toe, back and forth Here’s to mourning, here’s to birth
These are the paths that we take, Crossing over when one is not careful, Not noticing the sudden stiffness, The faint collapse of the heart before You return to your rightful state. And then you realize, And you weep for wasting your time When you’ll be there soon enough.
One-two, one-two, back and forth Herbs for mourning, wine for birth
These are the living, these are the dead, The hollow-headed, glass-eyed walkers, Locked in early rigor mortis, smiling Though they have nothing inside them, A shell of the dead to walk in the living, Criss-cross, criss-cross, Never resting until their time is up.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, back and forth Death for mourning, life for birth ----------------------------------------- Huh. And here I thought I didn't have any death poems
Watch out, Boney! I bet it's all an elaborate scheme to get your soul as he gave you a vision a while ago that let you survive what was supposed to be your death!
Quick! Have people been dying in increasingly convoluted ways around you!?
Comments
He don't get a second line.
Their leader, Chuck Schuldiner, wrote many great pieces of death metal poetry. Then he died.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
This is the living. These are the dead.
One on each side of a thin, thin line,
A track of mustard seeds, a symbol,
The faith that tomorrow will come,
The blind courage that allows us
To live on each day, though we are close,
A leap away from the other side,
Where all is darkness and damp,
A fete of maggots, the diet of worms,
The silent vigil of ivory, brightly grinning.
Tip-toe, tip-toe, back and forth
Here’s to mourning, here’s to birth
These are the paths that we take,
Crossing over when one is not careful,
Not noticing the sudden stiffness,
The faint collapse of the heart before
You return to your rightful state.
And then you realize,
And you weep for wasting your time
When you’ll be there soon enough.
One-two, one-two, back and forth
Herbs for mourning, wine for birth
These are the living, these are the dead,
The hollow-headed, glass-eyed walkers,
Locked in early rigor mortis, smiling
Though they have nothing inside them,
A shell of the dead to walk in the living,
Criss-cross, criss-cross,
Never resting until their time is up.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, back and forth
Death for mourning, life for birth
-----------------------------------------
Huh. And here I thought I didn't have any death poems
I buy my own lunches.
Erotic
Action!
Totally
Happy
...I don't know either
Quick! Have people been dying in increasingly convoluted ways around you!?
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis