Gently they stir, Gently rise. The dead are a new born awakening. With ravaged limbs and wet souls.
Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement. Who called these dead to dance?
Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song on her baby grand?
Was it the wilderness children? Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly.
I called you up to anoint the Earth. I called you to announce sadness falling like burning skin.
I called to wish you well, to glorify yourself like a new monster,
And now I call on you to pray.
“The Lizard King”