they drift away like memories,
When Alzheimer's  and Dementia,
Enter the skull shaped room.

they are pushed out of the Present,
To where they belong, the Past,
Exiting through the Closet.

Rattling the bones of the skeletons
building up and building up,
a legacy, of things not spoken,
things better left unsaid, it is
is like the ****** talking about...

The Undead.

they are not kissing cousins,
they are not twin sons of different mothers,
they were people once to,
they were run through the gauntlet,
lining the hallways till their nerves gave
Up,
and their will gave
In,
to the darkness.

they believed the bed of lies and pulled
the poison comforter up and under their chin,
suffocating,
hopes and dreams,
      they no longer dream at night and only in the
                          daydreams do they find comfort,
                           they are beyond hope, a desolate
                           land mass enriched and making
                           they who live there, poor.

they are those who were bullied
and never recovered,
they are those who were abused,
and were refused to be,
believed.
they are the ones who want
writing
to be witty and light hearted,
with bees that bumble,
meadows to have dandelion clocks, to
tell the time,
where the fresh mountain air,
cleanses the past
which is sadly soiled and soaked with all the salty tears,
stalling the seed of hope, desperate need of hope,
until the tears that fall have no salt,
or no longer fall,
they are those who thought they found love,
and then they woke up...to a different story,
then the life they were living and all they
had been doing, was giving and giving until,
they hated their own bones,
they did not recognize the images
in mirrors,
they lived in fear, that they would be found out,
and the escape route would be taken away.

Or tossed out of reach.
Onto the flat roof tops of an empty school,
broken windows, borrowed childhood dreams,
high pitched voices, too soft to hear their screams,
now forgotten. They.