A Deluge for the Dead and the Dying (Original Poem)

2025-05-05T14:15:00
A
A friend came to me last night in a lucid dream, dead eight years, sly and whispering. He said – “Drink in the truth, don’t deny a place for the dead and the dying.
Open the doors and let them in, as there are plenty who need refuge, a deluge that needs a course to run for all the dead and the dying.”
I bowed my head and he croaked and laughed “You always were a sycophant. Take a stand, voice a cry, open up those lidded eyes, the dead and dying are wandering in your mind.”
Crying
A girl unfurls her mother’s shawl. Deadwood skin, eyes glisten in stale sockets. A welt of crimson calico bile, from shrapnel that’s burnt a smile across her face. Empty veins dapple her arm as her daughter spills tears, that fill the gorges that run in a deluge for the dead and the dying.
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Bloated fish crisp in the midday sun, on beaches of moldering trash. Drunken reeling trees crash in the wake of flood-born quakes.
Rivers Spill carcasses of shanty huts into the guts of the sea, while we watch the daily news - peruse our broadsheets commenting on the dead and the dying.
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I stagger each day from my bed, my head a cacophony - a wind-blown sigh. Angry, resigned, blind; I emerge from that dream. A subconscious scream echoes my day in the morning's soft bloat of waking through to the evening refrain, I just can’t escape. Voices follow me crying – “who will speak up for the dead and the dying”.
All images used are CC license, please follow links to verify: [Image 1,](/pixabay.com/photos/man-pollution-garbage-trash-travel-7902570/) [& Image 4](https://pixabay.com/photos/people-businessman-hand-wrist-2566430/)
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