Under Taker

Sometimes, a corpse can tell stories the living cannot.

Image Credit: 
Public Domain

I know where the bodies are buried,
Never forget that I can leave a hand
Sticking upright to the sun,
Through the mud
As a marker for all to see.

Your mask is slipping,
Like the skeleton key in the lock
You thought laid buried
Under granite marker
Or twisted wooden cross
Staked through the heart
Of the eternally rising corpse.
These bodies do not always lay
Pinned to their grave floor,
My dear.

This undertaking of yours
Has taken over
And your dirty fingernails,
Caked with black mud,
Are cracking.
Remember, that as you
Have risen
So too may I
For my hand is peaking
Through the dirt
And I will not be taken under.

Connor Sansby is a Margate-based writer, editor, poet and publisher through his super-indie Whisky & Beards publishing label.

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