as we seek glory in angel halos
and in demon songs
with every little everyday task
in the work we shirk
the friends we help
the steps we take
the love we abandon
in each of these we write the book of the dead
we hold the pen in our breath
for every word we speak
and every sigh we seek
our judgments we lay down
as red carpet for others to tread upon
which has filled the world with
worn out red carpet
tis the binding of the book of the dead
our flesh is each page we carelessly flip through
with tears and rips and scribbles and highlights
to emphasize this and criminalize that
in the eternal sea of blank canvasses
yet to be praised or criticized
within the growing book of the dead
with the blood-stained ink we love to tell ourselves
we each write the greatest story ever known
not of great sacrifice or wealth and power
or justice for a great wrong
not any of these unto themselves
but all of these in their tangled bonds
because the greatest story is of I am you
and they are we in both love and hate
beyond all the trappings in this skin
and the fear of letting someone else within
these words that simply piece it all together
these are the final words of the book of the dead
-for Tracy
