I Greet the Dead

Secrets always find a way of revealing themselves.  Seeking the light, they crawl through the cracks of fragile egos, broken hearts and parted lips when they seek to breathe. Usually, round here, they find their way to my front porch, ready to weight my shoulders, as though only they know my own secret. I stopped breathing ages ago.

I am the forever in this crazy, little town. Never claiming itchy feet, I've seen them come and go. Leaving, only to learn the hard way, nobody here, ever gets out alive. I've watched them birth their legacies, destroy their birthrights, murder their brothers and break their mother's hearts.

I've seen them fight within an inch of their lives to deny the black magic that thrives here. I've seen them lose that fight, only to return to my front porch as smokey apparitions, as though in my ancient knowing, I can somehow set them free. 

It is sad to see belief dawn in dead eyes. To know these souls will never again have the opportunity to spare themselves from the hell their own denial has confined them to.

Round here, not much is asked of us.

We can live forever if only we acknowledge.

Round here, it is I who holds the secrets, but can not help them find the key.

I greet the dead with lemonade on the shade of my front porch, as though the only thing they need, is a reprieve from summer swelter.