☠️ You Can't Kill The Dead If You Are Already Dead ☠️ Poem by James McLain

The streets are again quiet,
no waves left to break on the shores of the silent,
No blood on the curb to draw the stray dogs.

A stray wind stumbles through the darkest of alley's
like you it forgets where it was that you came from,
and the boarded up windows watch where it is that you're walking.

Death doesn't care about your great name.
You think it was clean—
a door shuts, and the other never opens.

But the dead don't lie still,
they rattle on in your head
when you bite down on all your immoral regrets.

They creep into the purple walls,
flaking off the lead paint,
soft as forgotten prayers
in your hollowed out eye sockets.

You can't kill any of the dead,
but they can kill you,
if you but let them.