Does memory deserve such a platter?
Cellophane instead of silver, but still
An impressive tower.
Such weight it bears—
Exhibit of blue curiosities
Resting on shoulders,
Original honeycombs.
The honeyeater feasts
On what has made a meal of me.
Grand rooms echo with silence.
Love turned to hate
So often without comment.
A history of broken hearts lies beneath
Street level. Away from sun’s glare
I buried them.
It is a tomb I walk in, tour guide
To myself. It is an ossuary hidden deep
Underground. It is the Catacombs of Paris.
Here moldering in the dark repose
A stack of secret skulls and bones—
Those gleeful arsonists.
In the end, even they succumbed
To the fires they set,
Burning down chapels without regret.
The city rumbles overhead, oblivious.
Everyone is absorbed with their own busyness.
No one pauses to wonder outside the still museum.
The cool façade belies the treasures hidden within.
They forget the history we share.
No visitor ascends the stair.
Inside, all is quiet.
The sole curator walks among the artifacts—
The rare objects, a Gordian knot,
The personas we once wore:
The naked emperor, the femme fatale,
The honeycunt.
