Living Dead 

You still ask for
your feelings to
be molded like 
bone for a cast. 

You are in need
of a doctor and
I am in need of
a pint of peace
in the morgue. 

I keep repeating 
this hymn from
the crows lined
in threes on the
trees outside my
barren backyard
blue-tarp blues. 

You’re digging your
fingers into the 
coffin of a corpse. 
You may find a 
trinket or two, 
but the rest will
lead you nowhere. 

– B. 

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