I think I must be dead and my body moulders, rests
imperfectly in a carved wooden tomb. Secreted

beneath the malted mud, a restless corpse twitches,
mind set on deceiving; images of alien fingertips
skimming supple skin.

Truly, I have never been more content, as my pieces
decay and dismember and chest rises with bloated gas

breathing such sure imitation against
bleached white weaving whale bones as

the machinations, these movements of worms
whisper, vibrating your words within each unseeing ear,
surely, yes, no heart beats now to hear them.

You love me, say my worthy companions, and oh
do I love you too, most magnificent apparition, sweet
spectacular spectre, conception of minds greatest trick.

I must slumber eternal.
I must lie beneath shaded trees where the birdsong and
shafted sunlight and sweet taste of dewed grass lends

life to decimated, deceased thought of what was once
concious, forcing disbelieving perception, fabricating
a phantom, forging the incredible wonder of you.

I think I must be dead, for I think I drew you up
inside my head.