I breathe without fear
of inhaling hoarse dust
from a thousand generations
of skeletons
too still to be alive,
too haunted for death.

Wracked with hopelessness,
wannabe corpses
wallow in detritus

thinking of ways
fingers lacking sinew
could turn back days

to another unreal past
in which ghosts of hallowed graves
creakily inhale,

while their lung-spaces gasp
for any other option
but the hollow eternity of empty uncertainty.

I tip-toe away
with rubies in my path,
a visceral reminder
of consecrated life.


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