Grave Heart Poem by Franz Pascobillo

Come my friend, cherished one, king of the night.
Let us walk through the land of sweet despair.
To the corroding graveyard inside my heart.
Where all my dead are buried and kept.

Is it not lovely, my graveyard?
Though gray, is full of memory.
Though frightening, is painted like art.
Though gloomy, is rich and full of meaning.

Listen! Laughter echoes across its empty sky.
Feel! Cries of pain are eating out the sound.
See! Roses grace its expansive soil.
Know! The red are blood a-flowing.

Now, let me entertain you, king of the night.
Let us walk farther and see more of my graveyard.
Merrily we dance, drink, and binge,
As I too peek at the graveyard inside your heart.

But do you not mind the dry soil beneath your feet?
Do you not mind the colorless sky and stagnant moon?
The sepulcher scent that stench the air,
And the thousand tombs lined up the hill?

Mind them not, the cadavers beneath the soil
For I have buried them a long time ago.
The dead ones will not wound thy flesh,
For when they punish, it is in the mind alone.

But the times we had, I cherish truly.
And here in my graveyard I will tell a story.
Let me tell you about the dead,
The decaying corpses buried beneath.

See here my friend, this tomb stone.
This one is fresh and finely built.
The name carved is still so clear.
Words I can read from a mile away.

For here lies one who is dead but memorable.
With a name carved so deeply and painfully.
Now lying lifeless and inanimate.
But left a carved name that is like wound and bleeding.

But forgive me, for the others are tattered.
Cracked cement and weathered stone.
The names engraved are no longer clear,
For my heart no longer knows the pain.

I try to recall, who lies beneath,
I am certain there is a story to tell.
It is a novel I would love you to hear,
But alas! Both the love and hate have gone down the soil

Farther we walk, my cherished friend,
To the hill where ghosts are roaming.
Carrying sickles that cannot wound,
But always threatening to cut up flesh.

Here in these plains, please hold my hand,
For the roaming ghosts cause chill in the night.
Like the wintering breeze that shiver the bones,
When they howl, my heart would shatter.

But mind them not, the roaming ghosts.
It is I they have come to haunt.
And they will continue to roam my plains,
For they are the buried ones who are most difficult to forget

But halt! Beware of the hill next to it,
For it is there where the ghouls are roaming.
These are the dead who crawled out of the grave,
And unlike ghosts, they gnaw at the flesh.

But hate them not, the dead, the ghosts and the ghouls.
Rotting as they are, I have loved them all.
With a love as sacred as my love for you,
They were all, in their time, kings of the night

But now we are tired,
Let us rest and go silent.
For the moon is growing dim,
And my graveyard grows eerie and dark.

Have we not enjoyed the time we had?
Have we not missed every tea and chat?
You, the gemmed king who walked with me,
The living one who graced my grave.

Did I not forget to thank you?
Did I not forget to say my goodbye?
Will the journey which now ends,
Be held as a memory though became dead?

See it here my friend, this tombstone:
It is the newest one of all.
A name is yet to be carved,
But know, it is here where you will rest.

Now I dig, with hands so bare,
And teardrop drawing a crescent on my face.
With you lying lifeless beside me,
The life I took: fallen king of the night.

Farewell my friend.
Lie in peace as tears wash the blood from my hands.
And with the echoing sound,
Let the carving of your name haunt me for all eternity.