It seems like day to day
is page to page
of some grim novel.

And the broken bones
blend in as stones
of ivory in the pale cobble.

An institution there beneath my feet,
the underground for the deleted,
cloaked as ancient fossils…

In the black of the shadows, the truth still softly lurking,
remaining coiled, with primal scales that glisten silently like biotite mica,
illuminating enough light from its fragments to catch the attention of a few.
But the truth, in the dark, was too icy and apathetic to rise up when it was vital.

Now when I read the story I see pages where words are unwritten,
but the skulls in the stonework have steadily risen
up as pretty, young artifacts—now surveyed by human eye—
Finally unearthed, from their sadistic, abysmal prisons…
The truth can bring all things to the surface…