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.