Holographs that exists in parallel dimensions
But Confined to a certain perimeter
Derns in the blackness and dark, possibly yearning for light and a voice.
The none decaying skeletons in our cupboards
The slightest bit of human in them misses being alive, the heart beat, the feel of air rushing through their lungs.
They yearn to know how the world has evolved
The only dead men with tales itching to tell
Wishing every day to be remembered, like genies, slight triggers come through for them.
Longing to come up again, maybe wear the most trending coat and hat to go with.
Possibly get lost in the warmth of the City, have a nice chit chat with someone, anyone
Raise a glass of wine and make a toast to its story
May even go lengths of sharing a sweaty and drunken night on the dance floor
It seeps it's way into our vision, actions and words
In our unconsciousness, it thrives
What if we're the living secrets?
The real us caged in our minds
What then do we dern?
What Tea is unspilled?