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—

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  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.