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Uncollected Soul

by Robert Esha
Heh! Look at me! I'm just a cold stiff
surrounded in a blanket of black roses.
Face as pale as the sky shining
with dimness at the crack of dawn.
"Wake up you son-of-a-bitch, you're not dead.
Or, could it be
that I am?
Could that be the reason why
I'm lying in the essence of death
resting deep in my quiescence
rigid with no movement whatsoever?
Could that be the reason why
these people are grieving,
grieving with manifestation?
"Hey---Hey you with the flowers!"
What is this? Is this my funeral?
If it is, then who am I? What am I?
Why am I here?
"Hey! I'm talkin to you"

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Copyright © 1997 by Robert Esha. All rights reserved.