I see dead people
Every moment of every day.
They think they are living, but they are not.
I see them wearing suits
Their hair combed nice and neat,
Their suits freshly ironed
And their shoes newly polished.
They hold briefcases
And they work in giant glass buildings.
They drink out of coffee-mugs bearing their names
And they laugh and smile
And balance their 401ks.
But they are dead.
Rotting and writhing in a crypt of their own design.
They walk home each and laugh
At the hungry homeless man on the street
Who makes his meager living
Painting pictures of the sky.
They laugh and say
He’d be better of dead.
Yet they are already dead,
And he is the only one living.
That man is truly alive
And he will live forever.
But they had their chance.
The man in the suit
Was once a young boy in shorts.
He ran around and laughed and sung
Chasing butterflies down at the creek
And watching the clouds fly up above
Turning them into animals in his mind.
But that boy is dead now,
A shriveled prune
In a husk of a man.
Having committed suicide
All in the vain hope