Mummies

Most people are mummies
As contemptible as it seems
We are wrapped in the same
Blanket of disillusion
Crumpled at the seams
Trapped away from any
Light through mimic of
Former self
Decaying slowly internally
Yet picture perfect heath and
Oh, how we are adorned with
Fragmented beauty, a sarcophagus
So pristine, made up by things
That no longer have use to be
seen, stood up in silence and
laid to rest, a contradicting
Empty mess, so when I think
Of mummies I see the future
While most think of the past
Preserve the bold!
Most people are mummies
And those who are not
Won't last