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Walking Nightmares

Black silhouettes of a hangman's noose
Surrounded by ways to cut my life loose
Worn away gravestones of the gone and forgotten
Smell of decay, Bodies are rotten

Clouds form to create tombstones
Dead and abandoned, Feather and bones
In the road states the word death
Written in blood and the body that's left

Defenceless creature lays on the curb
Ripped apart flesh leaves me disturbed
No escape from death, No where to turn
Murder in mass as distant trees burn

Shadows before me stand crucified
I hear dying children that have cried
Funeral bells ring in the back of my mind
A family photo that's been left behind

Fallen tree looks like a dead body
Waiting to be found and ready to study
A helpless wave from a fallen branch
The wind whistles the funeral march

poem by TyjaRae Guy
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Related quotes

Who Made The Law ?

Who made the Law that men should die in shadows ?
Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes ?
Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards ?
Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains ?
Who made the Law ?

Who made the Law that Death should stalk the village ?
Who spake the word to kill among the sheaves,
Who gave it forth that death should lurk in hedgerows,
Who flung the dead among the fallen leaves ?
Who made the Law ?

But who made the Law ? the Trees shall whisper to him:
'See, see the blood - the splashes on our bark !'
Walking the meadows, he shall hear bones crackle,
And fleshless mouths shall gibber in silent lanes at dark.
Who made the Law ? At noon upon the hillside
His ears shall hear a moan, his cheeks shall feel a breath,
And all along the valleys, past gardens, croft, and homesteads,
HE who made the Law,
He who made the Law,
He who made the Law
shall walk along with Death.
WHO made the Law ?

poem by Leslie Coulson
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Disingenuousness

Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.

Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:

Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!

Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.

The March of Death

Death death death death death death death death death death death

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Death Bird

The death bird screams in the chill of the night
Flying through the tree branches
Making themselves scarse
Wind blowing through his wings
The moon being covered bu the clouds,
like a knight in shining armor
As the church bells ring, the towns people sleep in fear
Gentlemen stumble drunken giddy with the sweet intoxicating life and alcohol
Their bodies numb with joy
The people do not know the death bird sings for a lost soul
The man on the streets who has never found love
His blood pumps feriously through his body
A thousand thougths running through his mind
As the death bird screams above his head
Just waiting for death to cross over the dark fearful man

poem by Shelby Jasmin Estrada
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Unity Of The Elements

It was a pompous show,
For everyone should know,
The funeral procession
Of a rich man of the town.

Inch by Inch, the funeral cart moved.
Step by step, the mourners walked.
In black costumes, each one was dressed.
Front and back, march passed the crowd.

At the gate of the burning ghat,
The procession came to a halt.
Each one spoke, in praise of the dead
And tears flowed, for what they said.

On the sandalwood bed,
The body was laid,
And his son lit the fire,
That engulfed the funeral pyre.

The dead man's remains,
In the form of ash and bones,
To the sea, were consigned
As a finish, at the end.

At the bottom of the seabed
The bone of a poor man dead
Addressed his bone and said
'Welcome to this silent seabed.'

'The difference, when we were alive
Is no more with us, now let us live,
Not as poor or rich, but as one element,
No hatred feelings to foment.'

From the elements, man comes,
And back to the elements, he goes.
In between arises a low-high status,
That brings a world of differences.

poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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Cry of the fatherless son

I will not mourn my father's death
I won't even be struck by his death.
I will not contribute a coin to buy his coffin,
Or for the funeral which I won't even attend.
As is the custom,
I won't name my first son after him.
My children won't ever see photos of him.
I will not tell them tales
that my father supposedly told me.
His name in my house will never ring a bell,
Neither will he ring my doorbell -
For if he does I will let my dogs loose on him,
no matter how old and frail he'll be.
His name in my house shall be forbidden.

But how could I mourn your death?
How would your death strike me?
How could I contribute to your funeral?
Or attend your funeral?
As is custom,
how should I name my son after you?
And how would my children see your photos?
What tales did you tell me,
so I can tell them?
How could your name even ring a bell,
Or you ring my doorbell?
How would I let my dogs loose on you,
An old stranger that I haven't
My eyes set on?

Forgive me.

poem by Kimani wa Mumbi
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Piece By Piece

Modulistic terror
A vast sadistic feast
The only way to exit
Is going piece by piece

You have no choice of life or death
My face you will not see
I'll rip your flesh 'till there's no breath
Dismembered destiny

As soon as life has left your corpse
I'll make you part of me
No emotion
Death is all I see

Modulistic terror
A vast sadistic feast
The only way to exit
Is going piece by piece

Bones and blood lie on the ground
Rotten limbs lie dead
Decapitated bodies found
On my wall

song performed by by Slayer from Reign In Blood
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scent Of The Lover....

i am still water, moonlit and waiting.
i am the crucifix made of fingers,
the letter written in blood.
the fool tripping over windmills,
the beacon from a distant shore.
dust in the corner, dew on the grass,
the eyes of the racoon,
the bat hanging upside down.
the whisper of moss,
the depths of the cave.
the pine tree fallen across the path.
i am the kiss long silent,
the iron skillet, the tin cup.
i am the body of the wind,
without beginning or end.
i am the child alone,
and the woman abused.
the angry man, and the broken glass.
i am the farmhouse deserted,
the voices of ghosts.
i am the spirits of slaves,
who call in the night.
i am the cock and the dawn,
the howl of the dog.
the pilgrim beaten and robbed,
and left for dead.
i am the cry of childbirth,
and the shout of death....
i am the scent of the lover,
that stains your soul!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Mingom Treatment If Possible

Your morning cried
made me want to die
I like to die with the water hen
with the turtle the porpoises
the fish; even the porcupines
I like to die with the kangaroo emu snakes and opossums
I like to dead with the goanna birds and seagulls butterfish
even pelicans koalas; eaglehawks
I like to dead with all natures brothers and sisters
I love to die with my body in the boughs up high in a tree
I love to die without any black white singing speaking or being at my funeral
I love my bones to be dried out then put in cave; I love to die wrapped in bark
About six or three feet deep dug out
Then the logs put by my sides and branches to make a platform
Put the bark over me and fill in my body with earth
I love to die with singing; dancing and crying around my grave
I like to hear while I’m laying dead the political cultural speakers and fires all night till dawn
I love to die with my Aboriginal freedom colours all around me
I love to have a funeral with live music played by yidaki (didjeridoo)
even a song by our greatest singers; protest cultural singing
I love all my Murri people to come to my funeral; I don’t want one miggloo (white person) there
I love to die and live on in Dreaming I came from
I love to die and be buried in any Murri land

poem by Lionel Fogarty
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The Death Penalty

Bring back the death penalty screamed a lady as the blood ran, dripping from the cold concrete as her sons blood fled from its body. Bring back, bring back the death penalty screamed a mother as her child dies slowly watching the pools of life fade away from his eyes.

Bring back, bring back the death penalty screamed a mother while she watched her child being killed by the hands of another man, bring back the death penalty.

Bring back the death penalty as she screamed holding her dying child while he laid his last words and breath upon her chest. Bring back the death penalty she screamed in mercy so that she will so that she will no longer have to hold any more of her dying sons and lay them in graves before she lays in her own.

Bring back the death penalty she screamed as her sons soul left his body and he became another victim to a violent society. Bring back the death penalty, bring back our sons.

poem by Melvyn Mohan
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Death Is a Mockery of Life

Death is a mockery of life
They who have lived it through, are dead
So what about death can be said
It lingers in the living room after the funeral

They who have lived it through are dead
We do not speak of death too much
It lingers in the living room after the funeral
We try not to think about the lonely grave

We do not speak of deah too much
It is always raining in the grave yard
We try not to think about the lonely grave
Where no one seems to be, but only was

It is always raining in the grave yard
Some flowers grow between the tombstones
As nature doesn’t care about it, live or death
Just carry on as usual

Some flowers grow between the tombstones
So what about death can be said
Just carry on as usual
Death is a mockery of life

poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
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Poet's Epitaph

i see the lights of a far distant shore.
i hear the moan of thundered skies.
i smell the perfume of rain not fallen.
i taste the lips of earth, and of trees.
i see the fire in cold artic winters.
i hear the words the wind desires.
i smell the scent of passion held back.
i taste the blood of coming death.
i see the dawn of the blackened cave.
i hear the weeping of mountains still.
i smell the coffin, and shovelled dirt.
i taste the spirit set free in flight!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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On the Same Road...

that night i passed by the road
leading to the house where i live,

someone died on the road
i did not mind i am heading for home

this morning while going to the university
another body sprawled on the road, another dead body

there is a crowd of people
curious but not mourning

i do not stop for death
i am going towards mine and we who are still leaving cannot really be lucky

everyday we are dying
we simply have to wait for that fate
ful time
it is our turn we do not have to anticipate it
every hour
a part of us dies

it is enough sharing this moments of death
and so i said
i cannot stop for another person's death

destiny has once taken him
and there is nothing that i can do

i am also just merely passing by...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Funeral

I'm Standing At Your Funeral Ready To Say Good Bye
I'm Standing at your funeral ready to cry
I'm remembering all those notes we used to past
I'm remembering all those insides jokes

I'm wondering why this relationship could've last
It's close to my turn to say my good bye
I'm trying not cry.. I'm ready to try
It gets to my turn and I close my eyes as my feet drag to the front

My Final words to I said 'I wish I could of saved you from everything I said.'
'Wish I could fix every thing bad you read'
'Wish I could Die right next to you in your arms'
'Babe.. I want you back, let this be a dream'

'Let Me Hear my alarm'
I lower my head and feel my body tremble
I'm standing at your funeral..

poem by Kristina Bowman
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The Ship of Death

Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.

The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

And it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one's own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.

Have you built your ship of death, O have you?
O build your ship of death, for you will need it.

The grim frost is at hand, when the apples will fall
thick, almost thundrous, on the hardened earth.

And death is on the air like a smell of ashes!
Ah! can't you smell it?
And in the bruised body, the frightened soul
finds itself shrinking, wincing from the cold
that blows upon it through the orifices.

III

And can a man his own quietus make
with a bare bodkin?

With daggers, bodkins, bullets, man can make
a bruise or break of exit for his life;
but is that a quietus, O tell me, is it quietus?

Surely not so! for how could murder, even self-murder
ever a quietus make?

O let us talk of quiet that we know,
that we can know, the deep and lovely quiet
of a strong heart at peace!

How can we this, our own quietus, make?

Build then the ship of death, for you must take
the longest journey, to oblivion.

And die the death, the long and painful death
that lies between the old self and the new.

Already our bodies are fallen, bruised, badly bruised,
already our souls are oozing through the exit
of the cruel bruise.

Already the dark and endless ocean of the end
is washing in through the breaches of our wounds,
Already the flood is upon us.

Oh build your ship of death, your little ark
and furnish it with food, with little cakes, and wine
for the dark flight down oblivion.

Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul
has her footing washed away, as the dark flood rises.

We are dying, we are dying, we are all of us dying
and nothing will stay the death-flood rising within us
and soon it will rise on the world, on the outside world.

We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying
and our strength leaves us,
and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood,
cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.

VII

We are dying, we are dying, so all we can do
is now to be willing to die, and to build the ship
of death to carry the soul on the longest journey.

A little ship, with oars and food
and little dishes, and all accoutrements
fitting and ready for the departing soul.

Now launch the small ship, now as the body dies
and life departs, launch out, the fragile soul
in the fragile ship of courage, the ark of faith
with its store of food and little cooking pans
and change of clothes,
upon the flood's black waste
upon the waters of the end
upon the sea of death, where still we sail
darkly, for we cannot steer, and have no port.

There is no port, there is nowhere to go
only the deepening blackness darkening still
blacker upon the soundless, ungurgling flood
darkness at one with darkness, up and down
and sideways utterly dark, so there is no direction any more
and the little ship is there; yet she is gone.
She is not seen, for there is nothing to see her by.
She is gone! gone! and yet
somewhere she is there.
Nowhere!

VIII

And everything is gone, the body is gone
completely under, gone, entirely gone.
The upper darkness is heavy as the lower,
between them the little ship
is gone

It is the end, it is oblivion.

And yet out of eternity a thread
separates itself on the blackness,
a horizontal thread
that fumes a little with pallor upon the dark.

Is it illusion? or does the pallor fume
A little higher?
Ah wait, wait, for there's the dawn
the cruel dawn of coming back to life
out of oblivion

Wait, wait, the little ship
drifting, beneath the deathly ashy grey
of a flood-dawn.

Wait, wait! even so, a flush of yellow
and strangely, O chilled wan soul, a flush of rose.

A flush of rose, and the whole thing starts again.

The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shell
emerges strange and lovely.
And the little ship wings home, faltering and lapsing
on the pink flood,
and the frail soul steps out, into the house again
filling the heart with peace.

Swings the heart renewed with peace
even of oblivion.

Oh build your ship of death. Oh build it!
for you will need it.
For the voyage of oblivion awaits you.

poem by David Herbert Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Numbness Along the Road Leading to Our Destiny

that night i passed by the road
leading to the house where i live,

someone died on the road
i did not mind i was eagerly heading for home

this morning while going to the university
another body sprawled on the road,
another dead body

there is a crowd of people
curious but not mourning

i do not stop for death
i am going towards mine
and we who are still living cannot really be surely
lucky

everyday we are dying
we simply have to wait for that fateful time
it is our turn we do not have to anticipate it
every hour
a part of us dies

it is enough
sharing these moments of death
and so i say
i cannot stop for another person's death

destiny has once taken him
and there is nothing that i can do

i am also just merely passing by...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You get angry

You get angry
thats what death does
A light
A warmth on my face
The breeze through my hair
I smell the trees

You get angry
thats what death does
A heartbeat
A silent scream
Sinking
A coldness creeps in
Shadows dance in your eyes

You get angry
thats what death does
Not a death of the flesh
A death of the heart
The funeral of love
The welcoming of silence

Where you used to whisper...
I love you

poem by Lynzi Berner
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Several Species Of Small Furry Animals...

Aye an a bit of mackeral settler rack and ruin
Ran it doon by the haim, ma place
Well I slapped me and I slapped it doon in the side
And I cried, cried, cried.
The fear a fallen down taken never back the raize and then craig marion,
Get out wi ye claymore out mi pocket a ran doon, doon the middin stain
Picking the fiery horde that was fallen around ma feet.
Never he cried, never shall it ye get me alive
Ye rotten hound of the burnie crew. well I snatched fer the blade o my
Claymore cut and thrust and I fell doon before him round his feet.
Aye! a roar he cried frae the bottom of his heart that I would nay fall
But as dead, dead as a can be by his feet; de ya ken?
...and the wind cried back.
[in english] thank you.

song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Concept Of The Soul

The candle is shut and the flame is out.
The candle is left and the life has set.
Before shut, the candle must have been lit.
The unlit candle can never be shut.

The being is dead and the life is out.
The body remains lifeless and sparkles.
Does the death mean the exit of the soul?
The soul to exit, when did it enter?

Is it that the soul has entered at birth?
No, the embryo has life before the birth.
Is it that the soul has entered at zygote?
No, the sperm and the ovum have their life.

Hens lay eggs, which turn chicks; they all have life.
No stage is void for the souls to enter.
The souls are the extension of the chicks
And the chicks, the extension of the hens

The child is the offshoot of its parents,
Who in turn are of their parents and so on.
The body and the life have struck to form
A unit when the first life was born.

Death is no more than the death of a shoot.
The death of the shoot is not the death of the tree
Nor is the death of the tree the death of the seeds
Nowhere else is broken the chain of the life.

When one begets the other, the other
Is of matter and life put together.
There are no such things as soul and body
To fuse at birth and depart at death.

Germs multiply by fissions and budding
Plants diversify by seeds and cuttings.
Birds by eggs, mammals by kids, they all spread.
Germs to mankind, the life is an extension.

The soul is a single string that has run
Through all living bodies, alive or dead:
Through germs, reeds and plants, through flies, worms and prawns
Through fish, snakes and birds and through. Cows and man.

Candles and flame are not bodies and soul.
The candle is lit before it is shut.
The body is not lit with the soul
For it to be out at the time of death.

Then what is the aftermath of the death?
Isn’t that the life is soul that went out?
Yes, the life goes, the soul goes, not as a whole.
The extended part of the life/soul dies.

Should the life be the soul, then there must be
Only one soul to have come with the first life.
The whole living kingdom has evolved
From the origin of life by evolution.

The plants imbibe the inorganic salts
And grow and the animals eat the plants.
When plants and animals exhaust themselves
The worms and germs eat them and release salts.

That the soul enters the body is a myth.
That the soul exits the body is a myth.
That the liberated soul reenters
Or is redeemed of rebirth is a myth.

In every birth the soul will protrude
And on each death the protrusion is off..
It is not that there are as many souls
As there are living things born and dead.

The whole universal life is one soul
That travels through the different branches
Of the matter in growth and adoption,
And is off when the branches meet their death.

09.01.2008

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death, Inevitable Death

Death, inevitable Death.
So now You come to show Your world,
Hence the blackened cloak – unfurled.
And peering down upon my form
– Bereft of pity – Your eyes of storm.

Death, inexorable Death.
‘When? ’ The only question out of Thee.
My dream retorts 'But ne’er for me! ’
But now awake, I bid you so –
My giving tears cry ‘Where to go? ’

Death, adamant Death.
You cast Your spell and guide me 'way,
For life and I have had our day.
And what of me? I prey You, tell!
Be glorious in Heaven or gnarled in Hell?

Death, ineluctable Death.
Oh wiry ghoul, I'm here to follow –
I leave my body grey and shallow.
‘Come! ’ You bid in thund’ring tones,
‘Beg farewell to shattered bones.’

Death
Death death
Death death death
Death death death death
Death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death
Death death death death
Death death death
Death death
Death