Gothic-Surrealism

Words of a world, strange though wonderful.

Weeds Grow Over My Friend's Grave

Long after our black departure,

consumed by earth,

despite dreams of an immortal memory,

we’ll all be forgotten.

 

She has a poetic journal in her keeping,

immortalizing her words.

An archive of Gothic poetry,

holding her inner most desires

of adventure, sex, love and expressionism.

 

Metaphors possessing such precision,

sorrows channel into a time capsule,

buried within her being.

 

A single page entry,

could make a novel

of a thousand pages

written in vanity.

 

Kept out of sight from anyone

who persists to view its delicate words.

 

This record’s the gold kept locked,

button by button, within her being.

There’s no possible combination

to this safe,

 

as it is with the heart;

mind of the body,

where flesh to bone, bottom to upper lip,

can be locked as a secret forever;

dieing with the keeper.

 

As her body succumbs and decays,

the words whither in thin air

to pure non-existence.

 

Her words will live on as an entity

in a deathless tomb.