Carrying the small coffins silently
They walk among the white monuments
Small boys stuffed into awkward suits
Snot smeared on the insides of their pockets
Little girls kicking dust into their white socks
They walk on and on
Through the bone maze
there is no cross for a boy and his songbird
the world is cluttered with remnants
marble memories not unlike
the marbles the boys have hidden in their trousers for later

I imagine myself a blind artist
Painting what I imagine the world to look like
But I can only paint what I know
Because I see the colors on the page
And it's familiar
Is this a curse?
To have my eyes open,
And a brush in my hand?

The are a million things I want to write about
But I never know the right words
That is the pain of a thinker