Trod on the Dead that We Hate for Being Gone  
 
there are cold gray bodies under ground
buried alive, died and failed while
trying to scratch to the sun through silk
smooth lies from beneath the polished
lids of written coffin wood
 
we pave over smoke stained skeletons
and scatter the bones of long gone tribes
filling their footprints with settled ash
that rose to fall when cremating our own
loved ones leaving layers of sediment
 
still felt breathing, heavily upwards
through flower beds, last exhalation
stolen by sneaking, mischievous feline
on the prowl in reflection of depth
that pales to the leagues of those pushed
 
down day after day and needing
to feed the hungry monkey-chain
forgetting the lost and weakest links
that snapped but can be bent like wire
to conquer waiting, naive tumblers
 
-ech 04