the slumber in the coffin of my dreams
is restless. weary whispers of the past:
black box effluxion, bursting at the seams
(they rupture violently until the last).
sometimes i feel perfectly fine alone,
accustomed to the comforts of the bland,
without another soul to call my own,
or living warmth to press against my hand.
is there a need to fill this cavity
with that which everyone proclaims is love,
as insurance against depravity,
a last reminder, Aphrodite's dove?
meanwhile in here there is but space for one;
hold just a while more - soon i will be done