Death is my own covetous possession,
A hand-me-down with the worn edges
Of a closed, burnished keepsake box.

Death is the memory of a tree-lined walk,
A daguerreotype, a trompe-l'oiel des bois,
Sight itself turned within, but without end,
A forest of unstirring eyelashes, like long uncut grass,

Death is the stillness of pewter leaves,
And sorrow is sadness in love with itself.

I sought to pierce the astral screen
discover things which lay unseen

existence layers to strip and peel
all cosmic secrets to reveal

with book and spell I tore the veil
beheld all things beyond the pale

creatures that rule the land of Leng
ghoul’s midnight feast, the yellow king

fungi that steal and eat men’s minds
horrors made gods that sit enshrined

the gates of mortal souls open wide
to blasphemous things that crawl inside

I descry the future’s dark corridor
where the stars are an endless sepulcher

and now I know my folly’s curse
my reason slips, my thoughts perverse

I must escape and look away
lest in this charnel house I stay

but I cannot stop through act of will
my vision seeks, strains further still

the last recourse causes gorge to rise
I must be free from these hell born eyes

the knife clutched in my shaking hand
I gouge and stab my sight be ******

and for a moment I am free
but then I am brought to my knees

o’ gods of pain and fear abhorred
my sight but clearer than before

all vision now within my mind
I would bless who could make me blind

with eyes which cannot close or hide
forever gazing and open wide

nor even death will seal them shut
on these horrors my soul must glut

my body fades I cannot die
and eternally through madness fly

Ever the Optimists,
We Men.
Wee Men, we.
Wowed by
Simplicity.
Confused by
Complexity.
Slain by
Women's smiles.
Ever the Optimists,
We Men, we.

Wheeeeee!