Invisible

Maybe the flowers shattered the mirrors
from their perch on the empty grave.
Perhaps it was tear-hunters huddling around the tomb,
searching for sparks to fill them with rage.

They're all mourning an absence,
the gem they couldn't find,
but maybe they'd grasp it in their hand,
if for once they looked outside.

Oh yes, they've read the musty histories,
they've polished way-back-when,
written nostalgia in the golden smoke,
and burning what can't fit in.

Pity they don't shred their feet on the broken glass,
because mine are covered in blood.
The roses in vases of false morality
can't soften anyone's pain.

They want to fix the lovely ideal
they keep trying to revive,
but though they've given it a gorgeous funeral,
they've buried it alive.