your empty eye sockets
like little pockets
where wisdom used to be
(it was so shiny)
now you’re just a skull
a catacomb attraction
to give satisfaction
to tourists
who will never understand your misery

who were you my dear?
were you a Madam or Monsieur?
was it black death
that left
you on a pedestal of million bones
with only the silent moans
coming from your
gaping jaws?
in the catacombs of the lost

(c) 2015 allen simpson
just a stupid poem written in boredom inspired by the millions of skulls underneath Paris in Catacombs….

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