Zywa In Gothic niches

They keep quiet, the old dead in grey
bedsheets and the young ones radiant white
with a dowdy knot above their heads
stock-still in the Gothic niches
of the trees swaying high

A medieval open-air museum
birdlessly silent with gusts of wind
incomprehensibly rustling
in the leaves that move
what doesn't mean they're alive

I must have a look inside
stare through a microscope
to see if it is me, there
in those busy ports
of ions and molecules

Do they live or die
do they eat or are they eaten
and am I only food
and a ghostly apparition
of my own death?

Poem 2316
Amsterdam, 2016-06-28

Collection: BloodTrunk 
Keyword: Death: cemetery / funeral 
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