Waiting To Die I Have Talked To The Dead Poem by James McLain

Waiting to die I have talked to the dead
not since I was young have I seen so many faces.
Instruction by them not knowing their names.
So many of them are touched in the head none with wings.

It was I who approached them back then
it was I whom then sought them out.
Questions I had each night when I slept
more so now I have nothing against life.

Deep are the woods broad and wide are the trees
none have been cut there's no need.
Lust gives away to green eyes.
To circle around making no sound they are as many
as leaves on a tree.

Some are those lost suicides, language is there a lost art.
Each mind that you meet never asks why only a few
asks what it was that you built.
Laid to rest I must watch where they sleep.

I when I'm there have no further need
I when I'm there need not breath.
I am what I was all that I'm not
plenty of rest none say that I need blind to all else
I come to rest against soft lips that I feel.
Waiting to die I can talk to the dead
I begrudge none whom must cling to their life.