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Mourning
His life is letters of gold
Carved into black marble.
The letters are his name,
Bodiless, uncallable.
Incised into stone,
Inserted into history,
His story.
By the letters,
Numbers he'd known
And must have noted
Thousands of times,
Now looking so old-
Fashioned, so 'dated'.
He lies under our feet
As they stray or dare
To stray, in our mouths
Breathing the nonchalant air
Of a bright lucid morning.
For we're more awake
Now, for we're dying more
Slowly. We are mourning.
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