The Dead Walk

The dead walk among us,
I’ve looked them in the eyes,
they’re always looking downward,
never toward the skies,
I wonder if that’s ’cause Gods there,
disapproving but calling them home?
But instead of looking at him,
they mutter they’re better off alone.
They move and talk like live ones,
their hard to pick out from crowds,
but if you take your time someday,
you’ll see the dead ones stick out.
Their smiles are empty promises,
their expressions are practiced and stale,
and while they’re not ghoulish or ghastly,
something about them is pale,
maybe the way they shrug at things,
the world, the news, the struggles?
Its as though the weight of sympathy,
to them is naught but trouble.
The dead, they walk among us,
breathing without needing the air,
and when you catch a glimpse of one,
be careful not to stare.


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