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.