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Jay Sizemore
Live Man Dead Man
~after Maya Angelou
A living man walks
down rain damp streets,
he carries a window
where no sunlight streaks,
he watches his feet
he watches his hands,
the moons phases ignored.
The dead man sleeps
in the churchs pew,
until awakened and freed
from the cages of blue,
he has no veins,
has no blood to spill,
a restless heart no more.
The dead man haunts
the halls of hell
freed from lifes
soft bodied shell,
he knows the secret
no god will tell,
that death is nothing
but a doorway.
The living man works like a factory for grief,
spending his nights drunk, a thankless thief,
he curses the sun that makes him sweat,
spending days hed just as soon forget.
The dead man knows the illusion of life,
that the end longed for he still longs for,
he has no veins, has no blood to spill,
a restless heart no more.
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