The Dead

They care not for our guilt, imagined stains on stonewashed hands, the ghost blood dripping hushed. The universe might tilt, a dormant skew, it's twist demands the skewered hearts be crushed. With elegiac lamentation in forests of marble and crosses, what more is there to give? We stake the days of cold damnation, never, ever cut our losses, self-vilified we live. They hold us do the dead to promises that could not be kept, nor stand to be fulfilled. They paint our dream towns red with jeopardy for we who wept whereupon their breath was stilled. We never do enough in dreams to intercept at the pass before a life is gone. We just do what we can, it seems, it never is our fault, alas, we live and life goes on.