HEAVENLY HELL
The prophecy he tells me
inspires tropical dreams
where heat is ripe with death.
I hold him to me
just as I did ten years ago,
but we're dead
and our bodies crumble
with the effort.
We don't fall to dust,
but moist chunks of earthy flesh;
bloody yet painless.
The sun crashes down on our grave,
and our blood flower remains
seep into the cancer rich soil
that drowns us in murder.
But we're together.
Always.
Still.
And that small comfort is everything;
almost making our nightmare joyous.
Written By Jason Wright
OCTOBER 4, 2006
for Mark Adams