birdcage blankets wrap the empty head
that wavers and wanders the path we fear to tread
the dead speak and sing but birds fly no more
to soar
beyond a hill on the back of a beast
prolonging its noise
its call a siren wail of warning
impending doom
bombers pepper the sky
drops of moisture beading
collecting
slowing the propellor
blinding pilots as they screech and tumble
the fall into the ocean a
SMACK
as if into concrete
which holds and freezes you in granite
in stasis waiting
to be unearthed by faceless voids where faces once lived
but now
with the astringent gaze of a surgeon they see us
they pry us from our thick tombs
they parade us around the world
an artifact of lingering pain
the negative impression of our forming resting place
the only indication of heaven cut short
an enduring monolith to our absence
a mold for future imperfect versions
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