Burned Alive Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

strange,
you sitting there,
as peace somehow begins;
a dove's feather,
grasped tightly,
in your hand;
tattered, a drip with blood,
as though shot through,
by an arrow's flight;
does this god,
make you look,
so wretchedly at peace;
in your hour,
of the finality,
of your horrid life;
close your eyes,
think ever so humbly,
of your time's mess;
you in your strife,
wasting away,
such a gifted lifetime;
one prayer,
might have given you,
a meaningful excuse;
flesh charred,
like roast pork,
from the pit;
more words expressed,
the family that you lost,
the life, never to savour;
is over fool, yet, you did feel,
that presence, while leaning,
on that brick, of Lebanese Red;
one glimmering tear,
gathers and falls,
off of your cheek;
desiring death,
an approach to life,
as one sick sucker;
axis men desired,
the axe, you desire,
your fools tools;
hope, might have to,
rescue your left behind,
sealed tight arse;
then again, the end,
might be too painful,
for your kind;
for one as you,
smoke and mirrors,
and a limp wrist;
looking forward,
at this greasy screen,
mirrors an ugly sight;
feel an ache,
you know the scene,
pulling it to the right;
oh, who knew you,
when that pact was made,
whose words did you mimic;
you do know, as do all,
of your lifetime's woe,
and present's terror;
they called me,
and I answered,
how foolish indeed;
sentimental tears,
no my dear friend,
it is that drenching cry;
feel I have known you,
for all of eternity,
believe you in me;
separate as we are,
together, in earth's end,
we will soon be;
years have stroked,
your cheeks so black,
your back so broke;
and brittle gray hair,
unkempt and so sordid,
to my touch;
makes me unworthy,
playing with these thoughts,
with your death so near;
please do cry out,
the skies want to hear,
your death's last scream;
must have wanted this,
truth's words tumbled,
in that void inside your head;
freedom was flaunted,
and wasted, but no,
it is not to be;
sit there like a statue,
so peaceful in your extinction,
your quest, to never suffer pain;
such a fool, life is designed,
for suffering, for groveling,
for testing one's endurance to pain;
dear dying friend of mine,
your dreams do strive,
to this moment's bitter ends;
forget not, just how hot,
the furnace burns,
once your flesh is set ablaze;
you burning alive forever,
never to peacefully,
rest in your grave.