(A Sequel to The Corpses Have Hearts to Speak)

Long have I waited
To be resurrected
Cleansed, to be
Undamned

My eyes are sore
With dust desires
To see the colors I have seen
For I know that I can
Never step upright back

To the world
Of clinching steps
Where my windshields weeping
Is regarded as the omens of romance

See my heart,
It is clouded by skull silk
It is caged by casket
It is as the way it was not

My remains and my days passed
Might never gain back
The state and pieces I was in
Full of pride—
Empty of soaring sympathy

And gratefulness, I threw away is
Now just a simple decay dance
Now just a simple foul fool
Now just skinfingers mingling upon lovebones

The dangled toes and soundless threads
Could only boast ethereal sweats on top
Of our dead lungs
Revived by revolting revolver of tears that passed

Do you not feel sorry,
For our dull presence?
Living without our warmth,
As we live without a light,
Except those of the angels?

And up above from Heaven’s throne
A gospel rule was set for our liberty
And we are allowed to break free
Not long after

Only when the days break on the fifth
Only before the stars shade on the darkness
Of the sixth
I shall exist
As bound white shadows before your dull chamber

He attends the graves, a tear is shed
As he prunes the weeds that grow forth
Names,
Dates,
Year
Of there death,
Freshly dug, not long for this world
He buries them alive
He watches there eventual time past
Life,
Death,
Choosing
The last breath they take,
He sheds a tear upon each passing
"A wooden plague"
Hammered deep to their passing
He looks upon fresh earth,
Handfuls smothered upon his self,
He cries through dirt drenched skin, these
Tears
Are
Purity
That fall upon now dead earth
He gazes upon the many plagues
That read of each moment they are now past,
He sends families the paper of passing
A  picture,
A  moment,
Frozen
In families eyes, The passing he let breath
Breathe its last,
He is the grave digger,
He has many plots  fresh  for the living to die
He will shed many tears that pass In his graveyard
Of the living, and the now **dead.

Stained glass youth
with broken down fears.
Sitting in the steeple
of my forgotten years.

Sins were injected
by devilish desires.
Sitting in the box,
extinguishing my fires.

Crying with conviction,
bursting out with hate.
Release your grip on me,
this is not my fate.

Victory is mine,
it is almost done.
Black clouds soon arrived,
where it all begun.

Why did you come back?
and haunt me everyday.
What more do you want?
How much more do I pay?

You turned out my lights,
put me into sleep.
Tucked me down below,
wrapped me in a sheet.

My stained glass youth was shattered,
colors all smeared.
No longer will I remember
all my forgotten years.