The Dead

There isn’t much to say about the dead.
There has never been.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

They have ceased their lonely tread.
They have made their sin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

They had watched the listless breaking of the bread.
They had seen the wine swirl and spin.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

They had entered a pool of sin and dread.
They had curdled to thick, rigid tin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

There had been the thinning, tearing of the thread,
of lines that none could underpin.
They had fallen in their dusty bed.

Sunken eyes on a shriveled head;
the touch of unction on the skin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.

Into nothingness they were led.
They followed the lying, crying grin.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.

Now – there isn’t much to be said.
There is nowhere to start, begin.
There isn’t much to say about the dead.
They have fallen in their dusty bed.