I live where the best of poetry exists between the lines.

The place is full of corpses decomposing in drawers

and other half-forgotten places.

 

I go back every now and then; dig them up and ask

if they have anything new to say, or did our conversation

finish long ago.

 

I sift through the remains of lost loves and dreams,

long abandoned to their fate; looking for clues as to what they meant

before their untimely demise. Wondering if the dead

can be resurrected as I open a cupboard full of noble

causes, old ideas and hidden meanings. 

 

I share the frustration they must feel floating around

in the ether, hoping once more to see the light  of day.

 

Their omnipresence exists under old letters

and postcards, scribbled notes bearing comments

too distant now to comprehend; kept for nostalgia.

 

Knowing only too well it will fall to others to offer

them up to some funeral pyre; giving them the

burial they deserve.