Life in the Land of the Dead

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I live in the land of the dead.

Upon this path I have taken my walk alone.

My feet would hit the ground with hard and steady steps.

I hear cymbals crashing and the tuneful rhythm of the beating of drums.

I have lost myself along the way.

A lost and crying soul I am,

Living in a sea of shattered tranquility,

Only a shadow, I have silently slipped away through

An open crack in the back door of this place,

This place where the carpet is chartreuse and urine stained,

The stench of perspiration reeks here in this room, and

Tiled walls are sallow and filthy-

I sit upon this chair, its upholstery sadly torn,

Foam rubber poking out of every hole-

Old men, zombie like, overmedicated pace up and down the room and

A pasty –faced young woman, wrists bandaged-both of them…

I can hear the piano playing out of tune in the solarium.

My ears are crying out for some peace and some silence-

“Listen, listen,” I whisper hoarsely – a cry for help-

I am a captive in my own world, as I

Climb cumulus clouds in my worm-infested brain,

Cotton filled meninges…

The Italian woman screams and bellows,

Locked in seclusion  -

They took me into that room last night,

Kicking and screaming- it is her turn now to suffer.

The bitter taste of liquid Thorazine lingers upon my tongue –

Masked by the saccharine-sweet taste of the glaze on the

Doughnut I was fed for breakfast-

Cow troughs of them, a young girl bitterly weeping,

A middle-aged African woman, dazed, crochets

A pair of green slippers- so it appears-

This is the land of the dead,

I am living in the land of the dead.

I do not eat. I wish to harm myself.

Playing cards and broken chessmen strewn all over the floor.

Scratched records screeching on the phonograph-

I can hear them now.

I hear voices, non-gendered, they want me to die.

No one else hears them- so I am locked in this place.

This is the land of t he dead.

I am living in the land of the dead. Crap-chewing monsters,

Everywhere I look, but at the clock-

It is only one PM-

Bells keep chiming, as that decrepit ping-pong ball rallies on-

I stuff torn sheets of notebook paper hopelessly in my ears,

Trying to muffle the sound, so I can sleep?

I cannot sleep. not in this place-

The land of the dead,

This is the place they brought me to.

No one goes to heaven anymore.

This place is lower than the hell beneath my feet.

Beat the drums slowly, very slowly.

My time has come.

Everybody dies.

My sprit once young and alive has perished in this place-

Dead, dead, dead, a concept so bittersweet,

I keep walking my solitary walk,

Up and down then up again-and

Down the yellowed linoleum floors,

Thud, thud, and beat the drums slowly-

The gates to hell have opened to let me in.

I sink into the land of eternal fire,

Urine stained and dark as the fear that has wrought my

Dissolving soul,

Doomed to be trapped her forever, I am…

It is five after one, and the time bomb keeps ticking.