Bad dreams will come again
These are my oldest friends
Reoccurring nightmares
Ancient truths, older dares
Between floor and pillow
I'm running on wet concrete
Let me sleep

Poetry is not about
How many words
You write
But rather
What words
You write

Flower carcasses hanging on opaque walls
Ego death coffin doors slammed shut
Thinly veiled ghosts of love
Hanging between whisps of curtains
Moon light refuses to touch
Paper dolls scattered
Open window breezes
Sit in the quiet, listen in the dark
Hear faintly beating
The silence of my heart

Through the realms we go, to hell
Places that do not kiss and tell
Secret river, in hades realm
Bough to stern, a rocking helm
Deeper to a buring core
The fire of life burning ore
Specter, spirit, who can know
The darker way we go