anonymous waltz

A face, soft like vanilla frosting, melting
on a midsummer’s day, stares up at me
from a speckless ossuary, eyes vacant,
except for questions–thousands upon
thousands of them–without names.

So many, so many without names, hiding
inside abandoned mansions, where candlelight
is but a distant memory.  Within those onyx
walls, they too shall perish.

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