Preserved

Hollow. A gaping mouth

with hands outstretched in surrender

and eyes wide with fear

and a heartbeat that once lived,

that once raced in its last moments

until it became still

as if to not give itself away

till the very end.

The next one.

A boy under a desk

looking above as if the wood had the

answers to all life’s questions,

questions that could not be answered

by life.

Up the stairs.

Gashes that scar their bodies rise

like tiny mountains, separated by

chasms of blood and tears

that weigh heavy on the

weak and burdened stones.

Across the hallway.

Eyes black like a frozen storm

stuck in the mirror of a painful, yet

silent scream that haunts her

like a dark shadow.

Around the corner.

Wings,

full and free like an angel’s resolve

and unwavering strength

as it holds the world on its back,

as the world

crushes

its means for flight.

Further down.

A woman, brown. As the wood refused

to be painted, to be unlike the others

that have no color, no breath, no being,

only the remnants of a soul

that they once held dear.

Into the attic.

A plea

of the lost, of the dead,

of the preserved.

A plea to be heard.

<End of tour. Exit is to the left.>