Dead People

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

Of success. 


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