Living Dead Poem by Varghese J Kuttikat

The persons who sternly insist
Nothing is a miracle, O Man
Would indeed definitely descend
To a netherworld of sure boredom
Where the Sun glorious seldom rises
Yes, neither sunrise nor sunset awesome
Perhaps, dull souls turn sourly sour
Even melodies ethereal seldom stir
Their impenetrable core hard, cold, bitter
They gnash their teeth foul, however,
Keep themselves free from weeping bitter
They mistake Eden for an expanse drear
Or, rather, barely better than a garden of sorts
They won't care to taste, or share any fruit at all
They may escape God's wrath or words bitter
But, in fact, they are the lost souls, living dead