The Living Dead

The Living Dead

What death hath claimed, no mortal hand may slay,

For I have dwelt in darkness long before

This flesh was bidden to endure the day,

And breathe the air my hollow lungs abhor.

Mine eyes do open, yet mine eyes are closed,

This heart doth beat, though long it ceased to feel,

A borrowed life, in counterfeit reposed,

A wounded soul concealed behind appeal.

For she who bore me weeps not at my grave,

And so I wear this flesh as one wears grief —

A masquerade, a show that she may save

Her tender heart from sorrow's sharp relief.

So let no blade, no poison, flame, nor fall

Presume to end what Death hath long since called.