| In the rift between throats exposed and gnarling teeth
|
| Between a trembling hand and the ashen skin of the stillborn
|
| In a nest of rot and mold and crumbling matter
|
| I reside where dreams come to die
|
| Come where shadows have teeth
|
| And no wounds are healing
|
| Come where there is no peace
|
| Here we are always bleeding
|
| Chasms and cavities
|
| Sharp blades and bitter weight
|
| Sustains this shell
|
| This monument to everything vile and ugly and dead
|
| Come where sorrow and fear has hold
|
| No light transgressing
|
| Come where the air is stale and black
|
| Learn how to breathe it
|
| Grave processions through room after room after room
|
| Through nuances of black in a pitch black hole
|
| It’s inside these walls
|
| It sticks to the floor and it pulls you down
|
| It’s filthy rags over mouth and nose and hands around your throat
|
| It’s inside me and with the strength of trees winding their roots deep into the
|
| ground
|
| It’s connecting to a place within you
|
| Come where shadows have teeth
|
| Come where there is no peace
|
| Come where sorrow and fear has hold
|
| No light transgressing
|
| Come where the air is stale and black
|
| And learn how to breathe it |