Elegy

The story of a dead man walking,not in tatters but in three piece suits accentuated with luminous watches courtesy of the diamonds crust on it. Razor sharp he is,down to a T. But being cutting edge doesn’t guarantee life. He’s dead but as he passes, he doesn’t bring with him the whiff of rot that comes from time under earth. He leaves a thick musk of designer cologne, no doubt expensive. Smells like a bouquet but lacks the life of petals with morning dew.

He’s dead but his feet ain’t clawy extensions with flesh hanging from them. He wears top of the range foot wear,the kind that smother your feet with comfort and muffle your steps. He may glide over concrete and earth but lacks the life of graceful motion of swans. He might be the only dead man that drives his own hearse, all black and sleek reminiscent of a pool of oil. It is the envy of all those who are living around him but they don’t know he is dead. He may be flying past life swiftly but how would he know what life is.

He might be the only dead man whose casket is a multifaceted affair of concrete and elegance. The ants that bugged him and reminded him he was dead were the servants milling around like flies around a corpse with big smiles, sated bastards!
Hes dead alright,his eyes a gateway to a gray soul within,viscous blood that hardly moved in the veins,lungs with stale air that he bothered not exhale…

You need not be six feet under to be dead…