The spots I'm seeing connect,
forming an image through my cold sweats.
I feel like a jest but nobody's laughing,
it's silent like the inside of a coffin
at the graveyard, only sounds are
the footsteps of the drunken night guard
playing cards with the dead.
I've been a construction worker
My entire adult
Still, I cannot
Seem to rebuild
I've been a poet for
As long as I can
But my encouraging
Against her insecure kevlar.
Suppose all I can be is
Sunlight, water and
I'll try that; I've been a
Farmer's boy since
A flood of emotion
Is pouring out of me
But it gently flows,
meandering down rivers and streams
richly feeding the soil from where I stand.
The blues play with soulful repetition
As they replace my woe with rhythmic comfort.
This rhythm causes the stones to harmonically groan
yellow dew tipped flowers to empathetically sigh.
This place is my paradise for today
I firmly plant my bare feet into her soil
Deeply breathe in her sighs and melodies
I am here,
the most southern place on earth.
Remember how our lips once spoke their own language
And recall how my hands knew only your skin
Our hearts once danced in fire
Plunging in flames again and again
Bury me in the graveyard of your memories
And think of me fondly as I become soil
Keep me in wandering thoughts
Til the day we both shed this mortal coil