Even the graveyards grow lonely,
stones and bones that fail to sing,
the hearts that will not pound.
It is night, night, night,
so black we can not see,
as though we are blind inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of our flesh and into a spirit.
Still they lie,
feet made of earthenware,
death runs in the marrow,
a runner with no marathon,
bolting out from a starting pistol, from casket tombs,
moldy dampness covers her face and she spirit dances through the cemetery.
Sometimes I am blind
but I see coffins taking off,
embarking with the dead, with women that have dead hands,
with sculptors who are ashen white,
and pensive young girls surrounded by yellow hues,
caskets flying up the vertical runway, cleared for take off,
the runway of eternity,
cruising the lane with jets filled out by the sound of turbines,
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