Brine of Acheron
By Post Mortem
One late night a summers past, I stood at the doorway, waiting, The night grew thick, Making it hard to breathe, Each second stabbed the heart. Late night television, Paints the scenes wallpaper, Sounds of the night, Where are you? Screaming in my head. You wandered in at half past, It does not matter. Smell of temptation, All about your soul, I knew this was it. You left some stuff, I left messages unanswered, Boxed up, waiting forever. Now I lay awake in bed, A raft upon the brine of hell, You're gone now, And I am better off, Right? I stare into the mirror of gloom, The memories grow thick, And visions of you, Trample my mind, Make it hard to breathe, A Burning in the heart. Your soul has embedded The fabric of my dreams, The harder I wash it out. The more and more it stains. To rest, I must deliver you, To the mausoleum, Deep inside the black patch, Of the heart, Locked inside, Only from a distance To be visited. Written August 1st, 2000 © on Nov 16 2001 04:11 AM PST 10 • 0 • 1
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"One late night a summers past,..."