To the Departed… So It Begins.


Crawling into voices
Out of Awareness
Into pitiful light

As day meets the other and so. . .
Society wants me blind

Slowly, the poison
And juices up my skin

Bills and bliss tussle
In an epimorphic dance

There is no room for the grieving here.

The podium asks the same question
Every time the curtains rise;

You must be forgotten
We must walk over the dead.

I plaster a smile on
And let you haunt me instead.

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