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Still I think of that Dying Day.

When summer fell, and began to fade.

It felt like I had tore my heart on every

Black tree fist.

As I walked through that forest of time,

I passed through villages, nameless and old.

They wrote detailed books of my story in that cold

Place.

Those empty huts were filled with those

Maniacs that I left behind me on the road.

They crawl on hands and knees just to be beside me,

Just to remind me.

With sneering smiles and breath made vile

From those things I’d rather forget.

Still they slide past those rotten stumps

And try to jump

Back into my mind.

I don’t want those stranger ghosts anymore.

She was a dream inside my dream.

She walked along those membrane connections

And wrote down the pathways in her little book.

She mapped my psyche

And called me crazy,

But she never wanted to leave.