the dead may come

The dead may come out of their statues like they come out of these projected 8mm movie pictures on the wall.
They'd dwell with us if they could put their old molecules back together like they were at the beach that day when the past was the present.
Whether it's a good thing or it's woe that makes you want to walk out into the waves,
that depends on which side of the bunker you wake up on in the morning after the foggy revelations of the night before.
Whether seventh seals nail you to the nearest two-by-four or whether the rhythm in your feet feels the street's treats
is covered in a chaos theory introduction on Wikipedia.

They move around invisible with the toes of one foot testing the tempature of eternity , the other foot dragging around the mall gathering up supplies to make it through the winter.
They say dying is easy when you hear the kaboom somewhere inside of you.
An auditory bloom
like what you might see and hear and feel if you took a hit from Muhammad Ali in his heyday.

The dead may come and I will welcome them.
They may have search results from the Google servers on the other side,
or they may be zombies like people who have worked too long in an office with bad air performing repetitious acts that hold bureaucracies together like a communal sin.