You Haint Seen Nothin Yet.

Across the dark divide some haunt choir seemed
to chorus in siren song, lifting a dredged dirge to
some vague promise of a blackish eden where the
sands of time wash upon a shingled beach that
burns the soles of any who dare breach its line.
“Dance to that if you will, ya varmint!”
“ . .Ah, Ooh, Ah, Ow, Oww!”

There they go again. Coulda sworn there weren’t
no pianer in this house, but there is somethin’
a’ticklin’ them ivories in a weird key that’d make a
feller’s brain to itch. The heart don’t like the pitch
none, but the half-dead spirit begins to twitch. The
lids give a flutter, the clawed fingers tic, death’s
veil of sweet repose is rent.

Awake O Sleeper, Slug no more. There is plenty
o’ nonsense still to be done ere retirement comes.
Miles and miles to go ere at last you sleep. In the
meantime, to amuse yourself, go ahead and weep.
Thus, toks the metronome in somnambule drone.
The late patient staring dead ahead, just waiting
to go wherever led.

But of this no mortal eye beholds, no ear can hear,
can not be called as witness, for there’s no lurch, no
vacant orbs nor any of them tired tropes of zombie
lore. The juju is a magus of insinuation, a master of
misdirection, a mesmer of mere suggestion, can only
manifest itself in surmise, working its wont with the
tinct of what little left there is not to be said.