The Archive

Old ambered men,
rotting in vanilla,
are bound together
and numbered
in open coffins;
and a mist of dust
protrudes through
their wooden prison --
conspiring with the
ever tempting dark
shining from above.
White paper roses bud
below ladders that end
where shadows begin;
there silk webs spread
over this waste of heads
that thrust upwards
towards the bars.