There it was
one big shadow in the door
with a drawl going on so listlessly
the clouds above shuffling through the heavens
feared even to make a sound
There were people buried in those crypts
smooth white marble
cool and soft
luminescent in the moonlight
some covered in slips of papers
written in prayer
but do any of them answer?
The cobbled streets slick with rain
steaming plops of horse shit
the spreading light of midday sun breaking through the storm
and there are only the same people now as ever before
so much space
heart spaciousness to go on forever
but it has no use
peering through the dry dead bones
Is there no hard way to lose a soul?
There it is now
my sanity rearranged, sitting pretty,
shiney once the tarnish removed.
You never know what sort of people live in your house.
It was just a little story I meant to tell but
truth is the last thing anyone needs.
Better to be lost, even to banish yourself
like a sick old cat left out to die.
In the end all things are linear.
Where the West Begins
10 hours ago