lost soulsWhat do you call it?The destination of the soul when it can no longer inhabit the body? Heaven? Not Heaven; it carries too many connotations of contentment, fulfilled dreams and happiness. This place holds none of that. I'll call it the Kingdom.But I still wish I could be there.*I couldn't say how long ago I first visited the Kingdom; I no longer have any grasp of time. I started dreaming of the Kingdom in my adolescence, at the time when one begins to question such things as death, religion and the afterlife. Some might call me a medium, of sorts, but I had none of the abilities generally attributed to the psychic mind, nor was I ever a channel for any form of message from the dead or 'powers that be'; I was not a 'medium' for anything. In hindsight, and at the time, I was convinced it was just an accident.The Kingdom is a dull, grey place where the souls of the dead go. Or, are sent; I'm sure given the choice many would have preferred to remain without form amongst the living, o
Marble Streetthis, a garden of our ownwrought to flourish and nourish lifehouses the decay that now is younever life upon your grave againit hurts to hate one once lovedas i laugh to hide this bloodan unkindness of ravens circling heartscalling to your grave againcondemned to tread on this stale earthomens linger, reaching outtrailing fingers morbid stirno answers from your grave againnor sound as this misgiving shiesand both our skulls clasped in my handsas i rush into the willow housefrom the closeness of your grave againwithering violently, myself and rosessuch ruin to tribute your decayravens shed their sorrowed vowsno promises to your grave againand searing closed the wound ill-bornesymbolic like my turning eyenow hollow, closed, empty for youno tears upon your grave againthough locked on a chain still adoredonyx stone, your soul to housebut never summon courage enoughto dance upon your grave again.