I walk into the Graveyard of Dreams
Of shattered hearts and those throttled screams,
Away from where the sunlight gleams;
Where the dead things lie.

And as I pass the long centuries
My soul remembers the deadened breeze,
This body that’s on this life’s lease,
Lets out a shrill cry.

She reads the memoirs of ancient pain
The same souls that have left the same stain,
The suns that set and moons that wane,
And she asks me why.

And I walk towards the ready grave
The tombstone marked with a moon and wave,
All that I had I always gave,
But dead things will die.

I lift him up and bury my love
With one last look at heaven above,
All that I had was not enough,
Though, at least I try.

And with one last glance I walk away
Although my body bids me to stay,
My soul’s seen too many a day,
And She breathes a sigh.

For She knows True Love will not leave weak
Those with the courage and will to seek,
Those with the strength to climb Its peak,
And See with Its eye.

And I know that the Graveyard of Dreams
Is vital to stitch my endless seams,
It provides my supporting beams;
Let the dead things die.

The ocean crashes and I dodge jellyfish
carcasses, bloated, white and ****** like
loose spittle, drenched across the sticky sand.
I hop over this dead thing, so limp, so fragile.
Then, I see it. A black shine. A giant pupil.
Turn it ‘round in my hands and the rock is
smooth as plastic feels when wet.
Black, contrast, battered soft and hard
by the tumultuous waves that had
birthed it from existence into a sandy, shallow grave.
Oblong, like and oval smashed,
I slip the rock into my pocket,
sinking pink toes into mushy
wetness as the salty water laps at my thighs,
chilling them.

There is a stirring in my chest,
an elation I will not and cannot resist.
There was once a moment where all of life stood still
and my feet grew heavy
barren heavy.
Completely empty
and ready to fall.
There is a fire down below
where the depths of sight can’t grow.
It still feeds off my worried brain
like a fetus planted hover-vein.
The Venus Fly Trap sets its will
spiked teeth ready, for the ****.
There is a place where spider webs
and crawling things fit for nub ebb.
All my flagrant floppy body
deteriorates, demotivates, deregulates
into a monster of the fiendish kind
one where holographic glass goes blind.
there is a feed that ***** in silt
it still eats grits, their shiny pelt
slimy, sloshes, ready, in
frigid waters’ under-grin.
Come follow me, dear Venus Trap
into a submarine unsnap
there is a blooming in my groin
where dead things lay there
shivering.