The summer's nightfall, apocalypse in the mind,
insect-swarmed street lights illuminate the past
and cigarette settles spine,
and there was the sun setting on a corpse in a field,
and there was the pale moon nowhere in the distance.

I'm not here, either.

I remember imaginary friends,
their whispers and caresses in the bed,
but they never told me why they were there,
and I can't remember when or how they went away,
and there went mercy, roadkill between my wheels.

The word of God was in its guts.

Here are muses made of primal nights,
there was gentle fear,
there was stirring in my lap,
and her eyes like oceans in the dark,
there was that scent, there was insomnia.

May the sun cease to rise.

Here is the horizon
where city-scapes and seeds of madness sprout,
as ancient as the wind, they sprout,
as ancient as the trees sway,
the soul is never ready.

The soul is never ready.