The Less Dead

Living on the fringe I dwell in no temporary shelter, for I am a drifter.  Seeking food is a scrounging mouse digging through what could only be called the outcasts of the luckier or more clever in their game. The clothes From a moth bitten trunk cast off by the long time dead or one who loses what one once had and moves to a world that can only be described as the outer limits. A person under the radar. Only what God sends their way do the less dead live on. In the mass casualty of life, will anything be left behind to remind us? What gathers no moss, which has no stakes leeds a life free of history. Blessed is the less dead, dust has no stories.