WHO ARE THOSE IMMORTAL ONES?

Are they as stones?
Are they the holy statues of gold?
Are they not those stories we read over?
And over till we become them. Imitating-
who they were, becomin’ the dead once again.
Here, you see a zombie- the walkin’ dead.
You a bunch of them, bundled in offices.
In a taunt of becomin’ the future.
Yet, bathing in the past. Maskin’ freedom.
With the voice of a boss, ‘n chains of his dreams.
Dragged into homes, arguments made before-
the full moon, frowns kept till dawn. Silence beckons.
Or the azygous beings who remain-
nocturnal wonderin’ where they belong.
Workin’ endlessly for a reckless soul-
claiming the dream of unity, in his honor.
Blessing their hard work, often with a raise.
For the dream of one, many shall suffer.

 

-by Meth Minerva