Empty Cups

We bury our dead we bury their dreams In a grave, a hole with tree-root seams; To the writhing worm and mildewed wood, Surrendering their chemical blood. From measure to measure, their new room's sparse; Too small to knock the stars off course- But with tiny keys, imagination's in, To examine each imagined sin. Though they're dead, they're not forgotten, And our memories soon turn rotten; The things unsaid, the things unkind Will rip the blinders from our mind. Why hidden so shamefully away, Like burned pie or a ham turned grey? There's nothing we can do each coming day To take their empty cups away.