We carry ghosts

In caskets cowered

With garlands and memories

Into our houses and lives,

Past the graveyard,

Not burying them.

We carry ghosts

Of what was and

What could be,

Ignoring the corpses

Of today;

Of what is.

We are like morticians

Dressing the dead

To make them look alive,

Mimicking life

On the dead.

We carry ghosts

That rot and reek themselves

And over us

Throwing dead skin

Over our flesh and bones,

Clotting our views with dried blood,

Dreaming about resurrection.

Because we are afraid

And comfortable

With what was and what could be;

Unable to see what is,

And what could become

If we bury these corpses

In the graveyards

And let the gardens grow.

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