Past

Our accounts are the broken melodies
requesting for spines on each tongue
to sing them in musical gestures of recognition
Yet
the pathway unto which they disintegrate
- like vapors into the environment
- as of hallucinations in the core of fog
are cremains of toothless bones
Furthermore, at last
they downpour in rhythm
of repeating requiems
that we are mitigating drones
without universe
that we're occupants of expectation
in the family unit of the lost
In the event that our pasts are nevertheless melodies
How about we cover our predecessors
in a diary of encomiums;
a song of throes.