Dead but still breathing, they walk


    with closed eyes, blind


    hope clogging


    better sensibilities.


    Sire, how much time


    must I suffer


    to pass, and to what number


    must we count, before we choose to


    remember that dust and soil and song are all equal—


    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Equally home,


    and equally


    further from home


    than life after death,


    than love after


    the loss of love,


    and promises probably spoken


    with crossed fingers


    and averted eyes,


    like shy, self-conscious,


    self-condemned strangers


    passing shoulder to shoulder


    never younger,


    never older,


    lives paused in a perfect moment


    on the street.