Eternal Shadows
I stay up at night Unable to sleep, Because I know if I do indeed dream, I will wake
Disappointed with reality.
Dreaming is living.
Living is dying.
Six feet under you'll find me crying, Choking on dirt I'm slowly dying.
Roots curl through my fingers, veins of the ground,
I whisper to worms, but they do not make a sound.
Shadows coil like serpents around my ribcage,
The wind hums hymns from some long-dead page.
Bones of strangers press against the hollowed walls,
Their hollow laughter echoes through these halls.

Crows circle above, black banners in the night,
Their wings slicing silence, cutting out the light.
I speak to the darkness, but the darkness replies,
In the hiss of the leaves, in the low groan of the skies.

Dreaming is living.
Living is dying.
Here in the soil, death tastes sharp and sweet,
A perfume of rot, of mourning, of defeat.
Yet even in decay, a terrible beauty blooms, In the sigh of the grave, in the curling of tombs.
I am both lost and found, buried and awake, A phantom of the living, a shadow that shakes.
With the hope of someday, for you, eternity I shall wait,
A ghost in the garden, still guarding the gate.

The clock ticks too loudly, each second a hammer,
On the fragile glass of thoughts that refuse to slumber.
Shadows gather in corners, stretching, reaching,
Mocking the light I cannot hold.
Dreaming is living.
Living is dying.
Beneath the gravestones, the moon drips silver tears,
Licking my skin, whispering old forgotten fears.
The wind sighs through empty streets, Carrying whispers of lives I have not lived.
I clutch the sheets like a lifeline, But even cotton cannot anchor me From the pull of impossibility, From the ache of what is,

Dreaming is living.
Living is dying.

And still I remain, though the stars burn away,
A shadow, a keeper, where night eats the day.
Crows above, roots below, I am caught between,
A gothic sentinel in a world unseen.

With the hope of someday, for you, eternity I shall wait
Forever lost, forever found, at the threshold of fate.

And when the earth cracks open under moonless skies,
I rise not to the sun, but where the silence lies.
The crows fall silent, the shadows bend and stare,
For I am the echo of despair's own prayer.
No hand can touch me, no voice can call, Yet in the darkened hollow, I am everything and all.

can I handle the season of older,
took my~love, and took it down,
till the hymnodist laughed,
do not forget,
she shrieked,
old and gold are symmetrically synchronized,
synced, not sink!

what you want to think, is always,
never what you
true believe,
as long as you breathe,
a miner for hearts of love you are,
start in the capillaries, onto the arteries, and deep into the
pumping machine,
which calls out in indignation,
you human, are mine,
and as long as you mine,
for the cup that-is-not-illusory,
always and eternal, l think not,
for you have already tasted love's holy water,
leaving you, leaving you with an undying thirst,
for more,
the gold apogee on our elliptical trajectory,
where the she~sharing-oxygen once displaced
in a race
to be supplanted,
but that must be won,

when/where  the golden aura supplants
the necessities,
and the liquid gold will
replace, re-p-aces your almost now used up blood,
endlessly re~circulating,
subject to the  the critical cortical critique of
insufficient,
no más, for never enough,

gold and love,
like sync and swim
together  in time,
in rhyme,
how could you not know
this absolute
is a
scientific fact?