I am dead.
Every breath I take is like
taking a drag on a seething inferno
laced with cyanide.
I hack and sputter
as I transmit my lunch orders
to distressed-looking waiters
at my favorite café.
I am dead.
My sleep is perturbed
by painful memories and
bothersome distractions like
pop-up ads in the corner
of my mind's eye, floaters
thick as steel cable
bounding from edge to edge
in an unhinged parkour routine.
I am dead.
Every day is exactly the same.
I drive past the same
mini-malls on the same
highways through the same
overcrowded stretches
of colorfully blinding vacancy.
I am dead.
I can think of no other explanation,
no reasonable cause
for my lifeless wanderings,
ambling like a restless shade
at the unopening gates of Hades.
I am dead.
It is my most closely-guarded
secret - I am afraid to tell even
my friends, for fear that they already
know, or perhaps even worse,
that they are all dead, too.
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