Living Dead I Benjamin Bauda I Poetry

Living Dead

They prowl the streets
On the lookout for the next ugly scene
Wherever there is a clash of wills,
They are there to serve as witnesses
So long as you don’t ask for their names
Or tell them to write a statement
They are only there for their gains
To add sugar or salt to the soup
Sometimes they add both
They are the firewood for the fire
Always there when lights spark, when tempers flare they are there to stir the fire to its boiling point
They are the lawyers and sometimes the judges of the street
Listening to them is like a car parked at owner’s risk
For they flee at the sound of the siren
Especially when you hid from their wrong advice to set one ablaze who only stole a little piece of bread from you,
Ignoring those who are currently looting innocent bystanders who stood to watch the free show ignorant of the grand planners who are silently, rushingly stripping them off their wallets and phones, as the fee for the free road show that isn’t free.
As soon as it began so quickly it ends
No victor only the vanquished
For the victors are nameless faces
With no addresses
Under bridges and car parks are their home.
There they meet to share their loot’s
As they take a minute silence for their brother, whom they let loose.
They smoke, they drink, they dine and wine, at some point, some even die of wrong liquor mixture or drug overdose
No one cares, the same route they will all one day travel, unless grace comes, in few cases to save the day
For now they are alive outside but dead inside
They are living dead.

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