I have a passion for graveyards,
for ghosts and secrets lurking below overturned soil,
cracked headstones screaming haunted pledges,
ripe grass fertilized by those we love.
The perfect place for a sunlit picnic.
Jupiter hangs low in the pregnancy of midnight,
lord of my eternity.
A sustenance to fuel my blood and feed my soul,
we spend our nights swapping juniper berries and allegories.
You’re my albatross, my cemetery stone,
a Cheshire catalyst embedded in my soul.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
I have a passion for graveyards,
for ghosts and secrets lurking below overturned soil,
cracked headstones screaming haunted pledges,
ripe grass fertilized by those we love.
The perfect place for a sunlit picnic.
Jupiter hangs low in the pregnancy of midnight,
lord of my eternity.
A sustenance to fuel my blood and feed my soul,
we spend our nights swapping juniper berries and allegories.
You’re my albatross, my cemetery stone,
a Cheshire catalyst embedded in my soul.