Poem: “Outcast”

A poem for you today, my friends, and a wee break from the political.  This one’s another of the "I have no idea where it came from" ilk.

Outcast

Outcast, unclean
I clothe my naked form with
the silver-gray remains
of cremation pyres

Rendered fat fuels my lamp
and to eat, I have an abundance
of well-done flesh

For drink, the rising smoke brings
rain from the low gray clouds
and I open my mouth to take it in

At night, late
I sleep upon the soft, warm ash
and burning bones keep
the scavengers at bay

I have everything I need
but that which my vile behavior
has cost me:
            Human contact

The ghosts tend not to be very talkative
and are often in a hurry
to get to where they are going

I have stolen a skull
which I speak to, in the lonely hours
and when my appearance alone
does not suffice to frighten those
who would chase me away
my quiet round friend manages the task

Once, I was asked
why do you stay here?
Why do you cover yourself with ash?
Why commit the repeated abominations
defiling these corpses
supping upon their hallowed flesh, why?

My only reply is that
someone has to get the job done
and it might as well be me

- Becca Morn, 31 March 2006