The Living Dead

Stretched up, immobile,
in the corn cobbed dawn
as I stand waiting
for the crows to flutter
with echoing screams
and land on my stretched limbs
I cannot clap.

The frosting dawn
has paralyzed my limbs
I feel impaled and strangely
I can not shriek
nor can I scare the crows.
They own me now
as ghosts arisen
from a war torn land.