past present all over again.

Romantic type portraits

painted upon

faces of those gathering

and those that have been recreated.

Lovers and parents sitting,

watching

fires burning.

All have been warned.

The outcome, the ending,

has already been planned.

Yet, painted faces watch it play out before them.

               

The show begins once more.

The fires are growing hotter.

 The sky is burning.

Fragments of our yesteryear

are sold and bought on a black-market

of self-created romantic visions.

     

The  organs of our ancestors

are bathed in new blood.

New faces are being passed around

for the gathering to partake of.

     

Sheltering the guilt for silence.

The fires begin to burn brighter,

the smell of poison sweetens the air.

The lights go dim,

the curtains rise.

Forgotten celebritarian names recite angry prose

that gets tossed on pyres

where  nothing is learned 

and everything gained

 is not enough to pay the expense.

dead letters for living people