The tour guide leads us into the whiteness
-a vast hall lit iridescent, civilizations sturdy in glass cases,
little fragments of broken things
asleep,
as if in a coma.
Walk around a while, a few lectures,
and then
suddenly, there's something more recent.
Set apart
from cities of pottery shards ---
"The Smoking Skull," the guide gives it a name.
Empty eyes, oozing with the blackness
that fills the nooks and caverns of the world,
a little twirl of ash, skipping down its jaw,
and in its mouth
a cigarette
hangs.
Others walk by, give a few words,
moments of the past piling in those empty eyes,
a strange wonder,
the bone steadily burning away with death.
Kneel down a minute,
Grandma, Uncle, and Brother take form,
trading ghostly flesh,
whispering little words they never got to speak
with dancing smoke.
Stand up,
feel the burden in my pocket,
throw it
away.
The skull laughs and tells me,
"Its gotta be some day."
Added (1). I'm sorry, I swear I meant no offense. :/
>>> The Smoking Skull would you c/c this poem?