It’s quite a thing for us to have
A beating, working heart
To inhale, exhale, inhale again
As you fall spectacularly apart

For when you die according to
Any book I’ve read
Your heart goes still, your lungs deflate
To be considered dead

You shouldn’t feel the pulsing blood
Flow warmly through your veins
You shouldn’t walk and talk and think
Or feel such intense pain

There’s something so poetic
In being the walking dead
To be murdered so profoundly
On such an inconsequential bed

As dignity fell to the ground
Like a ***** takes of her clothes
Your body somehow betrays itself
And completely and utterly froze

So while you lay there dying
Your heart remains so strong
Your lungs- they keep on breathing-
It’s as though there’s nothing wrong

When the killing is finally finished
When the deed is finally done
The world slowed and hastened all at once
Into confused, oblivion

For how can you be breathing
When your life has come to an end?
When you’ve been so completely broken
There’s nothing left to even mend

But get up and walk you do
And inhale, exhale you must
Because, unfortunately, your heart must stop
For you to turn to dust


Like a ghost without the benefit
Of being properly dead
You inhale, exhale, all the while
With that memory in your head

Being undead hurts and numbs your
Senses simultaneously  
And your wounds bleed out in places
No one else can feel or see

Wake up, inhale, exhale, sigh
Pretend the same you still exists
But that girl is dead and gone
Even though her ghost persists

Twas a dark day, a dark day indeed,
The day the dead doth come forth and feed,
graves upon graves and miles upon miles,
suddenly you'll be bombarded by evil grins and sinister smiles,
At dawn you might fawn,
as the dead ***** the lawn,
but your pride might subside,
it is best that you hide
Oh mark thee a fragile mind,
for my humanity has left me along with the time

Umpteen years of gentle love,  
touching of souls,  melting hearts.  
Burnt lava nd acid too.

Two of us as one,  in a random epoch of time.
Is God ordained or  a throw of dice?  
A matter of deep speculation is.

Look at this humble Plumeria, Sweet Love,  
a hardy plant it is,  
It's lived through a couple of droughts,
two leaves still shiny,
look forlorn on its gnarled trunk,  
for It's tiny buds long burned by heat,
refuse to sprout any further greens.

A hope in its will to live,
and flower once every year.
What better a symbol of our  connect than
this mute brute of a shrub.

I give this plant to thee my dear,
take good care of it,
water it and watch it live,  
for its life is a symbol of our love..

Do not worry too,  if it dies,  for its only a glyph..

I'll plant another tree for you,
This time a mango,
which will grow big and olive under your tender hands..
to again ikonize a new phase..
One that gives fruit and shade,
to generations of birds and bees,
us in our old age,

and an abode to our Haunted Undead Souls!

I am soft-hearted,
And Sapphic.
But she is not a human girl
Anymore.

Every time I lay her to rest,
She rises
Like a phoenix.
Or a zombie.

She is soft-bodied.
Empty-headed.
Empty-hearted.

She is rotten to me.
All memory of her,
Warm woman,
Is gone now.
Her body is a dead thing.
A shell, only good for gutting.

My heart is spilling.

My insides are gooey.
They slip between other girl's hands-
Repulsive.
Hazardous.
A lost cause.

My heart is a terminal case.

Until it's replaced,
I am all robot.

Hard-bodied.
Hard-headed.
Empty-hearted.

Every girl
Who gives me the kiss-of-life
Is cursed.

I search for a shell
To put my dead into.

But she is in cahoots
With the rotted.

All I want
Is a soft-hearted girl
To lay with.

To lay me down
To rest.

To love to death.

Follow me to the hill and find what I've seen. Follow me and all will be well. No worries in your mind.  All will be explained in time. Follow me to the hill and you will see. Just beyond the hill is our home. Walls built not with brick but bone. Follow me and see the dead.  To see them all rise and your soul fills with dread.  Follow me from the beginning to end. For tonight we all feast on your head.

You are my Dante, you are my Vergil, you are my Beatrice, you are my devil. You are the spineless and endless tortured souls of men and woman who form horizons that never seem to end. You are the hung bodies in the trees of death, you are Cleopatra and Antony. In that never ending tornado of lust, cursed to spin and spin, conjoined in cursed love. You are the undeserving unborn who are tortured before they've ever even breathed dear life.

And I, I am only another accursed undead.