Illusions of the Dead: A Poem

Good God, was I angsty back then.

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Beyond these barren dunes of life, I know
    you walk in splendored gardens, sheathed about
    with memories exploded inside-out
like roses, growing where no roses grow.

It follows you should madden at my touch,
    should shun my eyes, avoid my plaintive wail,
    should drape across your eyes that pallid veil
which filters “endless” into “not so much.”

O heed my fading voice, you silent ghouls,
    and shut your eyes to heaven’s empty husk.
    Beyond this gloried, golden-shuttered dusk,
the endless dark of close and troubled souls.

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