how silly are the dead?
lined up with trumpets of bone;
the wind rattling
in their empty skulls

bored after so long buried
six shallow feet from the sunlight; they lie like lizards on stones
to warm their fallow spirits

they loiter in stained blouses
the harsh florescent glare;
trapped in the false walled
prison of their own choosing

yet who is more truly dead?
the ones that claw their way
with broken nails
through silk lined entombment

or the fool ignoring his bare digits, as he readies his own trumpet; railing against what
he is clearly, fully a part of?

how silly are the dead?
he ponders silently,
as the wind whistles
through his own empty head