This is another weird poem I wrote when I was most likely doing a lot of reading is the goth genre. It’s called “Old Bones.”
The warmth of decay,
Spongy mass of bone, lying silent and black,
Beetles and worms, plodding through the soil that surrounds me.
The echo of footsteps,
The weight of vague sorrow,
The rustle of carnations,
Those who knew me, come and go,
A habitual torture, the chains that bind me.
Two hundred pounds of granite,
Six feet of rich loam,
The roots and the insects,
Lonely hours, spent shrouded in memory,
This is my prison, this is my home.
Faint smells of Autumn,
Dead children on the street,
Whispers of black lace and velvet,
The smoke of cloves, like sacred incense,
Licorice balm of absinthe, green as my distilled pain.
Split one open, slide into warm flesh,
Wrap one about me, walk among them again.
Viscious liquid sex,
Alas such sorrow, these things far beyond me,
I lie silent and still, in the cold wet earth.
Tender young children,
Pale fragile flesh,
Hot bloodied lips,
All these things lost to me, centuries ago,
But I can still dream, this dream of the damned.