Necropolis Burning

by Bruce Boston

No one knew how it started.

The dead don't smoke.

Smoke at first rose

from a single gravestone.

Then several more.

A sickly yellow haze,

rife with the stench

of burning corpses,

obscured the cropped lawns

and temple mausoleums

of the lifeless city.

The dead don't light candles

or celebrate the Fourth of July.

The fire lay deep within

the twisted catacombs

that laced the underworld

of the underworld of Necropolis,

a dank and leaden labyrinth

of tunnels where no soul

was consigned to pass.

The tombs of the dead

are not heated.

There are no fires

of wood, oil, or gas.

From the high towers of Necropolis

-- thick with dust draped

in clinging tendrils --

as far as the eye could see,

columns of smoke rose

from the patchwork landscape.

Perhaps a passionate love affair,

still incendiary beyond the grave,

had ignited the blaze.

Perhaps the weight of history,

braced heavily against

the polished stones,

slipped and struck a spark

that condemned the city

to the engulfing flames.

At last all the dead

would be burned to ash.

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