Wading through the half frozen river of your soul
I lurk in the graveyard at midnight,
For humanity is a private club into which I am no longer allowed.
I have always lacked the key that would open the door
Into the garden of happiness.
Now the window of opportunity has been smashed with hammer
Leaving broken glass strewn all about the floor.
This world, this poor, flammable world...
I hover among the ancient headstones
And lend my energy to the buried beneath.
Memory is innocent, thus, the past is innocent,
But the future is spoilt by virtue of its permanence,
Its everlasting vanishing point
Towards which we all hurtle with sickening swiftness.