Arrete! C’est ici L’Empire de la Mort—

On that cold October day we escaped the Paris rain
by going down the spiral staircase of seventy-seven steps,
fifty feet below into the graffiti filled Catacombs, into the
supernatural,

deeper and deeper we ran through the revolution of years,
black pools of underground rain collecting on the ceiling,
like years of rain that was suppose to quench and protect us,

you kept smiling, nervously laughing, your hand pulling at
your v-neck shirt, trying to cover over your breasts from the cold,
running and running through the years until we reached the painted
pillars, a doorway between them, where this sign stops you in your
tracks:

Stop! Here is the Empire of the Dead—

Into the room of the dead we rushed, russet and brown stained bones
piled atop each other as walls: arm and leg bones, ribs and shoulders,
men and women, the rich and the poor and the young and the old,

fast death /slow death,

the apple size eyes of their skulls staring out at us as we stood there
together, intricate patterns that are meticulously placed in both dignity
and symmetry, six million dead below the streets of Paris, France
(beating on anyway),

and you held my hand tight and leaned into me; and you whispered
in my ear right then: “I wish I were dead sometimes, too!” you said;

and I knew what you meant, but I was afraid to admit it in fear of
egging you on.