The sun is slowly sinking
a wreck on the ocean
trapped in its inevitable destitution.
Steaks of endless goodbyes
loomed over people's shoulders.

While atop the mountain
the streaks of glittering hope
eradicated the darkness
hovering round the wreck
annihilating annihilation.

Between them lay
various forms of forever
in the stretch of the ocean
in the interminable look in their eyes
as they stand on the edge
of the opposing precipice.

Their arms extended
under the same sky.

On the pavement littered with cigarette butts and desolate corks. The street lights flicked on and off as I traversed the path that leads me back to you.

The soles of my shoes cratered the lane as I trod along the alleyway  that knows your name so well; on the bench nest disappointment and question, discussing what had happened; arguing what could have been. Around my legs hovers the hollow of my footfalls, trailing the breaths we have exhaled, the sweats we have perspired.

Perching on my hair were the shards of our glittering kisses. Faintly they flick, on and off, to the touch of the moon every time the light passed  through the bar, or whenever the bar passed through me. Its silver glow sleeps and snores.

Empty alcohol bottles standing beside the bin reminds me of the hours we have exhausted, your jeans and our dreams stretched between you and me. I can vividly remember the sound of our uneven gasps fluttering around like restless butterflies. Sometimes, it perched on the wall, on the curtain, on the window.

Sometimes, on your hair. Sometimes, on mine. And sometimes on my hand flat on the door while the other fumbles for the key as the entrance slowly widen and summer steals me away from the world outside.

I tossed my shoes, balled up on the couch, dissolved among the creases on the blanket, consumed your smell then closed my eyes.

This dawn , I shall be meeting you.

the grave diggers son
rises before the dawn
out into the cold morning
out into the vast fields of the dead
this is not the future he saw
for himself
a farmer of the macabre
he plants them
firmly underground
but nothing grows
nothing good comes of it

this vast architecture of finality
this field of mourning and tears
this cold place of death
a place that others would rather forget
yet they build miles of marble
and years of art
in this quiet foreboding place
afraid if we dont honor the power
that can ****** the
life from us at any time
then perhaps it will come seeking vengeance

the gravediggers son
his hands ache from all the death he must
touch
from all the loss he sees and feels

this is not the life for me
he swears to himself in a whisper
as he has every day for thirty years
i will escape this place
dont plant me in the fields of the dead