There is a stretch of stomped dirt, sprawled behind the iron fence, still-eyed
like a forgotten murdered corpse. A garden, for the worms of many years past, inching
under pebbles, each as gray, somehow proudly on display
above a bed of dust. Yet now, a graveyard, perhaps, for the memory and no,
no bones to be buried from the worm. But burned by the relentless sun, ashes
may be found, scattered not to the deep, deep sea but onto that dead, dead body.
Barbed wire, twisted metal tempts the glint of the killing rays but also
the flash of the cut as well. Opposites may attract, and similar blades may murder,
such is the law in the lawless land of the forever still. Where to from the tear in the gate?
A trek across the desert, all in due order. Spit from the dead man, all dried,
crusted atop mounds of dirt. Single set of footprints lead from the ghastly light of streetlamps,
spilling like the dysfunctional mimics they are, finding shadowed divots to the dunes. And
of course there’s no going back, there’s no road but if there was, it might as well
never curve to indecision. No, for the dead-walkers, only the straight path over the body,
over the grave, out of the grey light and into something darker.
Hanging stars sputter from the dry wind and fall, shatter noiselessly to the ground. A fall
so long from the sky will have extinguished it, surely, but there is no smoke or any
sort of noise at all. Death is no different from life here, each may be crawling hand-over-hand
through the dirt, blind to each other, slipping over and through perceived ghosts of burden,
and thud to silence. No peaceful drifting for these fallen, a single moment
is all the emptiness needs to engulf a lonely mind. Angry at the meteors that arc, out of reach,
and burn in midair, fear for the one left behind on the other side, and so very tired of grasping
to the shifting grains of sand. May as well lay it all down, give it up to the unknown and fall
quietly through, and leave as unknown as one entered.