The Undead’s Lament

By Danielle Hazart

My body follows the seasons, 

repeatedly killing itself and 

rebirthing itself again and again.

Sometimes, I look down to find

my oozing flesh;

the mephitic marbled mixture

never fails to gag me with disgust.

I stare at the graveyard of my skin;

at the many tombs of strewed scars;

at the remains of my organs leaking

through my flimsy, rotting flesh.

When the liquid finally dries, I’m left

with the gaping craters of my skin.

What shall I do now with these

hopeful plots in my garden?

Attempt to bury my grief and

let it rise again to haunt me?

I wonder to myself if it will ever end,

as I sow every wishful seed.

But it never will, as every flower

in every garden dies come winter,

only to be reborn again in time.

The cycle will continue, and

I will die again and again just the same.

By Danielle Hazart