The Honored Ghosts

These are the things we remember when
We call upon our memories
Every moment engraved, time stopped
Wicked thorns sprouting from the ground
Years of work lost to dust and disuse
Recall each moment as a mote of dust
Each mote of dust as a sunbeam
Light cannot be stopped but she did
Easily as blowing out a candle
As snuffing a life, as calling a child to
Sleep for a hundred years, condemning
Every one of her subjects to the same
Death-that-was-not, letting the world spin on
All of us outside of it, trapped in a world
Yearning for a prince who would not come