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Archaeology Of The Mind

Dead boy, dead boy,
I kiss your bones
for what you should have been,
the empty sockets
for what you should have seen.

Deep in the dust,
dead boy, dead boy,
I brush at what you were
but come too late,
too late to understand.

The flesh is gone,
the fingers still as stone
reach through dumb layers of time,
scratch on my mind
a long forgotten hierogram.

Clay fragments rattle
where all hope is gone,
conjecture casts a pattern,
wrings out a shadow
from the brittle bone,

a dumb charade of you
dead boy, dead boy.

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