Updated: Jun 25
I am walking through the graveyard way past dusk, long past eight.
I took the road underneath the sleepy neighborhood streets.
Below the sewers and then up the big hill.
A crooked sign at the entrance proclaims:
"Public gates closed at dusk or eight"
My trap doors and secret passageways have no time constraints.
Thus, I can enter at any moment to my beloved place... never seeing a face.
Arising like the moon itself, small lantern in hand, inside the crypt facing West,
warming up the dank stones, adorned with moss, casting chills and harsh thoughts.
This cemetery was left to one living soul from a family now one with the soil.
I come every night to light candles, to scribble on paper with pen.
In an old squeaky chair at the desk made out of a wine barrel I perch. Covering myself in a thick shroud of wool, I get started.
The smell of decaying roses and waltzing ghosts takes me away from a gruesome world.
And when the gates are locked and you are home safe and sound in your dreamy beds...
I add more blood to the bubbling slime in a closed off swamp of muck and grime..
to be continued...