This Is Not Lucid

The night is raining, full of trees
Of dead and drowning leaves
Like a wilted poem, A decrepit home
Made up with floors of three
And my demon’s in the distance
I am scared and so is she
I follow…
The little ones of coldest stares
With their skin ripped off in places
Bleeding thoughts with mouths agape
Eyes filled with marble casings
And I feel their lonesome artist
He is near and he is pacing
His heart is hollow…

I fell into the blackest hole
Lucidity was never know
In the world of half-lit catacombs
Reverberating moonlight drones

A monitor is shining on three faces
Through the crescent glass
I’ve seen this older place before
And its life will never pass
I move into its half-light
And its hold is holding fast
It’s awake…

Tiny, stuffy project place
The stove-light glow adorns
Their faces pass, their skin burnt black
They howl like a storm
And I see them through the screen
It is dirty, it is torn
They scream and curse and cry…
There’s an Elm churchyard
I watch myself inside
We’re laughing and we’re talking
Of how we conduct our lives
The north’s brutal daughter seduces
Raising her hips high
I open up my eyes…