The Dreams Of The Dead

Last night I dreamed the dreams of the dead
with wall of dust and gray covered castles:
In a world of waste and white
where no color fell
the moon alone was red
and the moon burned bones white.

This is the stillsong that hums its tune
in the dark, turning corners of Gehenna.
This is the clock that ticks undying time
on its handless face.
This is the human face ripped savagely free
and hung from the pole like a flag of truce
in the still, wet air.
This is the place
where love and light have gone to die
and dreams are born
crawling from the skull
like a murder of maggots.

-- 5/9/2012