Everyone is dead, has been dead
for a long time, we are merely their
words trying to find a place to hide.
No, we are the skin the sea once wore
but outgrew, little scraps of it, but
put us all together we could sheath the
world. No, we are the residue left over
from the candle of dreams burned out.
The dreams are beautiful, let me tell you
the ones in my family. The dreams are
costly, there are some we would forget.
No, we are the tongues that have taken
up the fight against silence, knowing
that silence has all the staying
power. Our most trusted weapon, metaphor,
but even it crumbles. No, we are the
patient come back from the treatment,
and now the whole world is our bed.