The stage is set for “the still alive”,

the audience an unruly crowd of cold corpses

The air in the forest is dense with the dark

before daybreak at 6 AM

The house huddles up on the hill,

creaking, keeping the walls up close,

the rooms kept in tight formation;

the doors standing vigilant guard,

a couple of windows lit

shining

like eyes of some dark electric beast

that waits

Here & there, scattered cravings stir

for some insignia of life;

self-awarenesses rising like ghosts

out of the deep dominion of dreams,

dominated by fatigue's vast years of escape,

people turning in their beds,

fading terror and boredom and used up sleep

in their eyes,

stage set for “the still alive”

in a world that's old

and weary of this performance;

the playbill always the same,

changing every day;

the stage invariably set for “the still alive”;

the dead out of print, the boards worn,

the words stumbling

over the fence of the teeth

down the stairs:

“Morning! How cold is it today?”