The Diplomat’s Burial Garden

The words that trigger the soulful
Pictures have been hiding.
Without them, what’s a thought

But a blank from a dummy gun?
The body of the frail contains
A suitcase crammed with folders.

This internal folderol amounts
To paperwork on the scales,
And the scales assess bureaucracy.

So much goes missing near the end,
The funk and the careful threading
Of these fungi more ancient than bone.

Are they? The fungi? Bones are old
Inventions to be sure, but so is rotten.