What kind of secrets do the dead keep?
They whisper them to me,
strangely inviting
enticing.
Like a story, weaving in and out
of existence and time
Between the wall of the visible
and the unseen
the forever unseen
The veil that composes much to be had.
Encapsulating.Emulating.Invigorating.
The undead dream of its truth.
Composing their own lyrics and fantasies
of that which they wish to be true.
The secrets of the dead cannot be composed.
They are unseen, unimaginable, and most of all,
dead.
It’s a painting that can never be done right.
painting it over and over again
until its simply black.
the folds of its depths cannot be seen
like the glassiness of a still lake,
never knowing how deep it goes.
The other world pours into mine
through dreams, and more dreams.
Haunting dreams that are unexplainable,
sometimes they’re funny,
mostly they’re terrifying.
But only if you allow them to be.
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