We are the dead.
Lost in a memory, remembered
As the things we are not
Which is better than the things we are
And worse than what we were.
We are the dead,
Recollected as a life goes on
As the things we do not
Are done for us, mantles passed on,
Taken from what we were.
We are the dead
Reflected in a pool of memory
A glass at a time, collected
When needed, and when unwanted
Ripples in frozen water.
We are the dead
Caught between two mirrors in a living mind.
Infinity collected in a memory,
Filtered down as murmurs, present
In the past.
Written by
Matthew Wells
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