I just eye-witnessed a funeral march

jump out of stale air to deaden the space
between the cosmic and the whispers, arch
in its own fogginess like liquid lace:
One spirit said to me, "Take this damn key;
I can't bear to open what I can't see."
One kinda wanted to leave; one to see
to it that calm and love could somehow be:
But the air is damp, intentions laden,
though the clouds streak leaden across the skies;
These spirits are tired, or misshapen,
and the whispers in the air spell out lies:
Or at least half-truths about dreams, wishes,
when dreams are dead, and those spirits lushes.
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