trapped between frail pages
as there are souls alive,
flickering, in the city.
They whisper from the sarcophagi
into which they were laid,
dressed in flower petals and kissed
to an in-between life,
by careful curators
who stand by as they fade to catch
the last breath of their birth.
The entombment commences
in the way that humans dream
of burying their brothers —
not for death, but for a soliloquy sleep.
One that allows the rightful king to
slumber through sorrow with a heartbeat
and awake to something known
rather than an entirely undiscovered country.
The murmuring voices wait, wake soon
when the proper soul slices itself
from the artificial lights
and the blocks of strife
and to this bound.
Soul revives long-locked soul
from the curse of darkness brought
by the burden of light.
They will hear the muses whisper
over the roar of the never-
ending
city, and set her,
even if only in half light,
in half life,
through ones childlike ability to spin the globe,
free
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