Friday, November 19, 2010

179. The Way of the Walking

I am walking past the walking dead,
And they do not know what they are.

Their eyes are saucers, and the lenses
Of their glasses are the cups upon these.

The lenses of their glasses are the cups
Upon the saucers of their dark yellow eyes.

The cups upon the saucers of their eyes
Are the foggy lenses of their glasses.

And I am walking past them, these walking
Dead, and they do not know who I am.

These walking dead do not know who I am,
And they are walking with saucers for eyes.

Wide-eyed through this subterranean tunnel,
They walk holding their ears in their palms.

These dead walking past me and walking
Behind me, are holding their ears in their hands.

The ears that they have they hold in their hands
So the sound of their talking won’t hurt them.

They walk through the echoes lighting this
Tunnel, speaking small words among themselves.

They speak among, not to, themselves; they speak
Among, not with, each other along the way of the tunnel.

Along the tunnel glowing white, I am the only one
Who hears all these voices talking to no-one.

Talking to no-one, these walking dead, who
Keep their names to themselves, are walking.

They are walking, not waking, through
The sound of their voices talking in space.

Their voices are moving as their legs are
Moving, as their arms don’t swing by their sides.

Their legs are moving in steps like walking
To the sound of their voices they can’t hear.

My heart, through the sound of the echo of
Their voices, moves like the sound of thinking.

The sound of my thinking is the only sound
I hear; it is the sound of their voices walking.

Within this sheath beneath the earth, the only
Sound of me is the sound of their voices moving.

Theirs are moving voices moving with the sound
Of their legs moving them forward through voices.

Their voices are the moving of the walking dead
Walking through the sound of my thinking.

I am thinking through the sound of their voices
Which is the sound of my thinking moving past.

They are moving past me or behind me or
Coming toward me to move right past me.

They do not stop to look through their saucers
At the sound of the voice from my face.

They do not stop to open their hands to
Hear every word they are saying out loud.

The sound of their voices is the sound of their
Words moving and turning away and through.

They are turning down corridors off the run
Of this tunnel and turning away from voices.

They are walking down corridors away from
This tunnel and dropping their ears to the floor.

Their voices are silent and their ears they are
Listening as they walk from the tunnel to darkness.

I am left in the tunnel and walking with
Voices whose echoes remain in my head.

I am walking past spaces where the dead used to
Walk down the tunnel lit up with their voices.

I am walking past empty down the way
Of the dead and no-one is talking beside me.

The tunnel is long and lit up with voices
That once had once spoken beside me.

Only I have a voice, a voice only thinking,
And I hear it inside me with footsteps.

I am walking past the way that once was
The way of the walking dead walking beside me.

I am walking past silence and walking directly,
And I do not know where I might be.

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