When the alleged dead come acalling

Clutching at life

 

When the alleged dead shall rise

To haunt us in the deep of night

With their lungs

Gasping for air

Their eyes full of horror

Clutching at life

As it gallops away

Shall we beg them

To quietly return

To their alleged heavens

And hells

And leave us

In our earthly limbo

Our foreheads bleeding

From the thorns

Scratching our conscience

That no balm can ever assuage?

 

Pina Piccolo

Palm Sunday 2017