May 24, 2014


I dream
about the catacombs
of Paris, all those stacked bones,
neatly placed skulls, eye sockets
full of emptiness, each specimen 
a life, someone who had loved,
kissed, felt the joy of birth,
the sorrow of loss,
all long gone, 
their rest violated 
so they could become a spectacle, 
placed just so to impress me 
while I still live,
wondering if I might also
end up here, my sightless orbs
staring out of darkness
at those walking where
I am walking now.