The dead are like those alive:
Paranoid, mad, and clicking with nobody.
Newborn souls buzzing around, trapped in a honey money
modern mayhem medieval ancient digital world hive.
There’s no escape.
Tracker dogs sniffing them out and tracking them down.
Ropes or chains or rat face torture cages or red tape
and surveillance squads unearthing corpses still breathing underground.
How is it in the afterlife?
Can you still keep in touch?
Back and beyond, betrayals and ambitions as cutting as a quality steel knife?
Does it matter that much?
Not knowing where to start while looking forward to the end,
this week has been one long headache and Friday topped it with a computerised migraine.
Nothing works and I broke it anyway cos I lost my temper with cables and connections that tied me up in knots round the bend.
Would take my guitar to the mountains
but I can’t play, and I can’t climb
but worldly fakes can feign.
What’s your poison? Same again?
Go to Source
Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
