A WALK AMONG THE DEAD
I am walking through a graveyard in my mind, reading lines on tombstones, sentimental monuments, feeling lost, alone. I am looking for my own, hoping I will not find it. In my deep sleep I remind myself I am still up here and not down there.
The night is late with a not so bright moon hiding behind a thick layer of clouds, shrouds of the dead. I scream loud: "I CAN'T FIND ME!" I know this is a dream. But it seems so real to me. I touch my face, my lips. I sip the moisture of the night. I strain my eyes. There is no light.
The sadness that I feel is not for me or members of my family. It's for those below, so near I hear their mournful cries and weakened sighs and listen to their last goodbyes.
Why are they gone while I live on? I miss them even though I did not know them, or if I did, not well enough to show respect they had a right to expect as I passed them by. I reach out and feel the crosses and five-point Hebrew stars, the flags of those who died in wars. I slightly hear the whimpering cries of children whose eyes are filled with tears who died because of someone's irresponsibility or of a fatal malady that wouldn't let them grow old like me.
Some succumbed of self intent, suicides they must have been, for a sin or a battle they could not win. Was it a reason for self-treason? A reason why they had to die? So many lost who could, who should be here. Oh, the cost in bitter tears!
A graveyard, such a lonely place. In my dream I know someday I'll lay among the dead while others walk above my head. I'll hear the sound of shovels turning over ground, the diggers laughing while they drink their beer. And in my dead mind I'll hear their labors as they prepare a resting place for the neighbor who will sleep eternally next to me.
The night is late with a not so bright moon hiding behind a thick layer of clouds, shrouds of the dead. I scream loud: "I CAN'T FIND ME!" I know this is a dream. But it seems so real to me. I touch my face, my lips. I sip the moisture of the night. I strain my eyes. There is no light.
The sadness that I feel is not for me or members of my family. It's for those below, so near I hear their mournful cries and weakened sighs and listen to their last goodbyes.
Why are they gone while I live on? I miss them even though I did not know them, or if I did, not well enough to show respect they had a right to expect as I passed them by. I reach out and feel the crosses and five-point Hebrew stars, the flags of those who died in wars. I slightly hear the whimpering cries of children whose eyes are filled with tears who died because of someone's irresponsibility or of a fatal malady that wouldn't let them grow old like me.
Some succumbed of self intent, suicides they must have been, for a sin or a battle they could not win. Was it a reason for self-treason? A reason why they had to die? So many lost who could, who should be here. Oh, the cost in bitter tears!
A graveyard, such a lonely place. In my dream I know someday I'll lay among the dead while others walk above my head. I'll hear the sound of shovels turning over ground, the diggers laughing while they drink their beer. And in my dead mind I'll hear their labors as they prepare a resting place for the neighbor who will sleep eternally next to me.
posted by Ed Weiland at 9:07 AM
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