Patti Masterman (US)

We bury our dead we bury their dreams
In a grave, a hole with tree-root seams;
To the writhing worm and mildewed wood,
Surrendering their chemical blood.

From measure to measure, their new room's sparse;
Too small to knock the stars off course-
But with tiny keys, imagination's in,
To examine each imagined sin.

Though they're dead, they're not forgotten,
And our memories soon turn rotten;
The things unsaid, the things unkind
Will rip the blinders from our mind.

Why hidden so shamefully away,
Like burned pie or a ham turned grey?
There's nothing we can do each coming day
To take their empty cups away.