We live in a land of the past,
Books and pages are ways of old.
We are pieces of historic quilts,
Coming loose at the fold.
Proper prints of precious paper,
We have worshiped, day in and day out.
Those ancients come back to haunt us,
Specters float free around old house.
Preposterous monster, behold you!
So green, so vile, so askew-
Distant memories my friend, you’ve passed,
Now we make frightful light of you.
There is nothing so morbid as fearing those of the dead,
It’s with great anxiety we’ve weighted them in our head.
My father would agree,
He was agreeable.