language of the dead

as in what constitutes the fleshen
bone and intimacy of our dead
language we are given unto these
meanings
traced back to our lives, each
lie, a suspicious truth
we invent after the last
spent skin slithers past.
are we capable? as
silhouettes like myths
cast onto these walls
caving in,
seeping into
neutral limbo.

who are you?
or are we beyond
questioning,
as realistic representatives
of what we can never really have,
holding onto things
we never really had. clutching
at silence. not speaking
words, these symbols
of the new warfare.
weapons we turn on each other
trying to undress our pretenses.
as overtures to the great lie.

love, they say, as virtue,
but is vice.
love, they say, as words,
betraying reasons for evol intent.
here we see our naked folly,
the beloved, the enemy. within.
here is where you slide the knife in,
this is when i pull the trigger.
let us say the words together.

i am alone.