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Sunday, 5 December 2010

The Dead Man

I walked with a dead man.

With his sightless eyes.

He never tasted the pure air,

He never felt the sun rise.



Spoke to me with rotted breath.

Told his story by whispered sound.

And as the crows pecked at his flesh,

He told me of how he rose from the ground.



Told me that he was a sinner.

The Devil made him a deal.

Told him he could live forever,

But his life he would steal.



For some many years he has roamed.

Living out an existence in misery.

But when I look deeper at his face,

A cold chill reveals he is me.

 


copyright Chris Smith 2009

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