There are prints on the
insides of my eyelids.
Daguerreotypes for a
stereopticon.
The faces of people
with no smiles
Sepia tones
3D, but ìn a way
That you can tell is phony
Fake like blue roses
Left many yesterdays
On a grave,
Petals faded and cracked
Leaves missing from
The Styrofoam wreath.
Lost when the windstorm
Blew by.

My eyes open.
The dream gone.
All I see is black.
Black as raven feathers,
Black as a roadkill cat,
(All 9 lives gone)
Black as the deepest space,
Blackness that can only be seen
On the inside of a box

Buried

Six

Feet