Dead Speaks, Of The Other, Empty Kind. Poem by Michael Gale

Skeletal hands, reaching skyward through sifted soil...
Tombstone's shadows alter a dead looking specter-ed and majestic throned royal.

Dark shadows of a rotting kind...
Increases life's failures to a new heightened realization of dizzying spell and an eye-closing blind.

Dreams of which we dream in black and white...
Should seem possible of a colored schemed sight.

Alas, alas, these images of self defeated, depressions...
Leave behind a tortured, and filled emptied shell of a mortal and limited fuzzy impression.

Negative filters...
Life empty embers, floating reminders of many days of, jilted wilts.