A Thing Dead

A THING DEAD

A thing dead breathes a thousand breaths,

Dissembles the infinite with its death.

Abashed are the fools who believe it finite;

Foolishness dwells in eternal twilight

While eternally stirs luscious memory.

The succulent stirrings once so fiery

Are always afire in darkened caves

And cavernous wax sweet remembrance’s waves.

As waxen-faced figures fill halls in our hearts

The breaths of our reveries create a new art.