Gothic-Surrealism

Words of a world, strange though wonderful.

Death Has No Voice

The walls of this tomb breathe;

disturbing years of dusty memories,

icing over my sunken corpse.

 

I’ve lain frozen in time

since you sealed me

in this eternal bed.

 

Darkness.

Oh how I’d love for the light

to find its way pass the coffin lid.

 

Now and again,

I’ll run my fingers across the wood and wonder;

how much longer shall I have to wait?

 

This death has no palate for passion;

long since my heart had thudded beneath this dungy suit;

the heart of my emotions thunders within.

 

Death has no sight to behold;

darkness welcomes itself and dwells

within this hollow soul.

 

Death has no touch;

this leathery rag of insecurity wrapped around a corpse

linked together by a shatterable conviction.

 

Death has no voice;

oh where is that song

resting eternally now?

 

Words that once gave this body life and serenity;

now fractured in pieces,

scattered amongst a repressed soul.

 

Life had a summer taste; death has a winter one.

In springtime I was born,

in fall… I was on my autumn deathbed.

 

The walls

never echo in here;

I am alone.