We are the dead. Our tombstones stumble, wild
in their grave-less shallows. Voices echo,
damned to shatter the city’s covering.
There are no such things as third eyes, we said
but brains and hearts and lungs were real, until
heaviness from their empty pupils blinked
us to stone smiles, but we are not art.
Do not peek through the absence of our eyes,
and do not be scared—we are worse than fear.
We are warnings to the breathing humans
who still know their reflections; do not stride
into the mold, for you cannot be fixed.
Wrap your body in your city and live
your blissful life unknown. We are the dead.