Dirge Poem by Miss Unknown Empty

It is the endless dance
of the dead that lead us
to the bleeding songs of the living
soundless footsteps cross eons
of space and esurrections
too greet you here on this morning
without sun, without water, without life, here where the wind speaks out
but is not heard, where the flames
erupt, but are not felt or seen the drums have silenced
but will sing again the beat
of the rhythmic dancers
the conch horn does not call
but will call again warriors
dancing doo-rags contemplating murder
pimps thinking only of cadillacs and money will die in the
flames of the gutters
and there is no certainty or guarantee
no contract signed by Allah that says
man must reach the twenty-first century
it is the endless dance of the dead
that leads us weeping to the bleeding crimes of living
it is the timeless footsteps
of the soundless that speaks too us
of the ruin of our heritage.