Death takes no middle ground I might as well be a ghost running helter skelter between late and early past my epithet as I pull a rabbit out of the hat feeling not afraid but pocket lint has no place in my soul or emptiness leaving me half full

My soul is my gothic violin with the bow of the picador played softly in solo in the world of my dark oyster warming my marrows blood running cold in a caravan with a melody of strings and the madness it brings fathoms deep among the dead... my soul is my gothic violin

Moonlight dancing over silent waters gently flowing over soft quarters across stones and leaves of caravels cascading over the water mill of my mind as heaven in all its glory shines lighting the golden pond with the water that has past gently flowing over soft quarters moonlight dancing over silent waters

Beyond the realm of dawn's twilight where wind makers bring sighs soaring with angels reaching the sky as the stars resemble lamp-lighters and the dream-maker stands as old as the treebeard

Evermore forever the rainbow no darkness between my feet only the sun and memories to rejoice your voice from crimson fields of your lips and mascara shade of your smile beneath the willows of butterflies dreaming

A shadow of screeching silence in a silhouette of all my fears a nocturnal coronation of widow wax dark as the ferries of night of my fleshless anatomy dragging my melting crayon wrapped in loneliness listening to the agony as it drips my forgettable

In a tin can is a letter I penned, On the Tennessee River near Shiloh, While laying mortally wounded. Shot by a Yankee in a uniform of blue, In a peach orchard... 1862. As I cast my eyes on Heaven above, Waiting for the last cord of a harp, I feel your breath upon my soul, Carrying me home to Old Dixie And the pecan fields of home. Now I pass from Johnny Reb to dust, But with this letter I send my love, Enclosed with a bu...

I come from hell a naked Amoeba to enter a cell called flesh it is my tomb with some growing room through the eyes of my muse and the laudanum fumes pale as pewter eyes of dark's covenant the veil is rent I see her true my tendrils corrupt the heathen woman who is rightly adorned with vanity with a wondrous breath of death, I yearn turning the screw entombed exhaling a scent of eternal on the epiphany grail sickened grief...

Buy me a song of tomorrow holding hands with memories listening to the winds in the silence of a rainbow before the breath of dawn kisses the dew on your lips a shadow of my beloved as time becomes, another tomorrow.

In comes the wind and Illuminati touching my skin sleeping naked in unadorned metaphors echoing serenity no time for gauchos or cowboys on the Pampas escaping the whispers of makers and takers and near-illiterate listening to the sounds as the coffee drips embracing my reincarnation in comes the wind and Illuminati.

Who is adoring and who is not assuming life is paper mache and death is the final echo, listening to the rainfall. But life is busy, yet, we need more and cannot pass up hope, keeping score. There has to be a reason for a recurring voice and temptations, if not a spoof. When sleepers fail to open their eyes and dreams have come to a demise, who is adoring and who is not, assuming life is paper mache.

Whispering God's, day ago prayers, if I could only touch your face without leaving fingerprints, for death is a naked shadow without layers of clothes, in old photographs, from your body to my mind in life's curiosity and curios, of our love's fancy serendipity when we laughed and cried, singing the alphabet, in the alpines, now soft-spoken in a desk locket

Fading from withered leaves in silence dies the dreams leaving a void, haunting, long past the shadow on the day-old bread but there is no beast beneath the bed, just devils in my head and the Cheshire cat, whispering, strike one from the bones of my past with the chains of sorrow perhaps a guilty tomorrow, clinging to the sermon of a false soulful hour, in my mind's cold abbey listening to the dead it must have been a cl...