Living Corpses Poem by Bartholomew Arkoh Boamah Sarbah

In a world of shadows, where silence thrives,
Resides the living corpses in disguise.
With breath as fleeting as the morning dew,
Man walks the earth, with nothing new.

A puppet of vanity, in a play so grand,
Masked in colors, with a deceiving hand.
Like a corpse adorned in shimmering lies,
His true essence hidden, from prying eyes.

In a symphony of chaos, he plays his part,
Dancing to the tunes of a hollow heart.
Each step an echo of his impending end,
A mere mortal, no different from the inanimate blend.

He builds towers of pride, reaching for the sky,
Yet all shall crumble, in the blink of an eye.
For what is man but a vessel of dust,
His ambitions forgotten, his desires unjust.

Like a corpse he walks, with skin so pale,
A living specter, on a timeless trail.
In the grand tapestry of life's cruel game,
Man is but a whisper, an echo without a name.

So let us ponder, what is man's worth,
In the vast expanse of this transient earth?
A living corpse, with breath borrowed and frail,
In the end, all that remains is a silent tale.