My fathers house is empty now,
The fires out in the hearth,
leaving only cold, dead ashes
and solitary gray spiders who spin
their own webs of mortality.
Bringing new vision where the whiperwill
no longer sings of peach
and fireflys no longer blink
the rythm of love.
Days end with beer-born recolections.
Night sinks among hystericall
sounds of the city-
cries of millions dying.
Dreams are haunted by the
grinning maggot whose siren song beckons me
closer and closer to potters field.
While an unwelcome dawn returns broken
shattered hopes reflected from my bedroom mirror
where ridges of dying dreams
chisel deeper and deeper into my face.