behind the shadow of what isn't there inside the box with triangles for eyes lay broken pieces of the hearts who care or said they did, and then grew deaf to cries they crawl around upon garbage-bag ties and pull, like magnets, string to be their hands until the moment when one of them dies then all contract like old green rubber bands grey tears run from their eyes like hourglass sands both for themselves, and for the one so dear of course, they know they're bound for better lands but, holding on to past, they still feel fear perhaps one day, a pair of ears will hear the echo of a half-forgotten prayer and, with new heart, will curiously peer behind the shadows of what isn't there.

. . . . . . . .

"you know, i was almost tempted to title this 'forgotten gods'"