The Dead Speak

Hi, fellow Stemians,
Here is some poetry I have been working on.
Thank you for your time.

The Dead Speak

Broken bottles, empty chairs, feasting on a rabid hare,
Bulging purses, heaping bowls, living with a rotted soul.

Pig is sitting growing mold, another body getting old
Sacred riches, golden pens, justifying any ends,

Stolen fortunes, broken waves, forced into her early grave.
Curdled milk and clotted cream, witnessing the gruesome scene.

“Dirty rats, invade my halls, infest and nest within my walls.
Bloated corpse, stinking death, draws the rats with every breath.
Greedy hands, locking trunk, into the lake the car is sunk.
And then forever she will sleep, and with her secrets, she will keep.”
But rats that live inside the halls,
Bore witness from behind the walls.
Bore witness to the evil deed.
Bore witness to the evil deed.

—Ixo

Opulence dripped from the walls, the table, the cold hearth with no fire. Forced air kept the rooms hot now. Too hot, for anyone who wanted to be comfortable.