Requiem (Instrument Exhibition)
This museum is a mausoleum
The stench of decay assaults you at the door
Permeates your clothes, your skin
And sinks into the floor
Clear coffin cabinets
Proudly present their dead
For the private pleasure of public eyes
In decorative death shrouds they sleeping lie
In oak and iron beds
An entomologist’s dream
Preserved and pinned back tight
Neat little labels
Green felt canvas, dim light
An orchestra of exotic insects
Wood, wind, brass, bone
Mouths gape lamenting
In a silent secret moan
The death bell toll resounds
As a widow’s wail, and sings
Of supple breath through tender lips
And nimble fingers on cupid’s strings
In an arid crack-lipped rasp
They chant the cold refrain
‘We are as flame fodder masterpieces,
And worm fodder saints’
Copyright © Synonym Thesaurus | Year Posted 2009
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