Dead and buried
under a ground that moves
beneath tired feet, falling backwards,
running, barely keeping up,
stumbling in holes left behind.

The path is crumbling
pock marked with missing pieces.


Weighted down with pearls and drowning
in an avalanche of jabbering
voices, shouting, laughing
rough on the sensitive hidden
inside the cracking shell.


Every picture is digital
lost in cracked screens
and a visitor would never see
that anyone had been
or ever would be
admiring her empty shelves.

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