Where They Sleep

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic


Poetry

Submitted: March 24, 2018

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Submitted: March 24, 2018

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WHERE THEY SLEEP

By A. Guinevere Kern *Copyright 2000

~~Saecula Saeculorum

 

Sometimes so near to you

You could hear them breathing

Could they breathe.

Uninvited worm guests,

The bane of Buzzards,

(Who imagined themselves

The deities of death).

Tenants of appropriated tombs,

By necessity and custom.

Reclined beside the bony outlines

Of former beings, in the midst 

Of the must, the dust and the rot.

Enduring the cobwebs, the damp,

The mildewed smell,

Of disintegrated fabrics,

Dessicated flowers, 

Mossy developments.

Thus contained beside decay, 

They sleep like buried history.

Habitues of sarcophagi,

Denizens of closets, snoozing among

The satin-bedizened hat boxes

And orange-clove sachet, or

Stacked in the wine cellars

Aging along with the Chardonnay

The Zinfadel, the Merlot.

Annexes, attics, grottos, caves

Even the trunks of old Cadillacs

Will do. Barns, basements, niches, naves

Any secret chamber serves as grave.

The antique wardrobe, behind Grandpa's

Passe Tux. The mint-green fifties freezer,

Unplugged in the garage

Is large enough for drowsing Perils.

One Vampire slept routinely

Slung from the clapper of a bell

Atop St. Bartholomew's Cathedral.

Upon the honest sunset hour

He issued forth like a sermon

From the bell's brass lips, 

His appetite talking already.

Secret as a bribe, remorseless

As Nature, for darkness

Drinks reflection and dimension.

Morals and ethics dissolve.

A secreted sinner, still I cannot sleep

In the absence of shadows. There is

No crevice or cage or redeeming bed

To embrace me in dreams. I beg

The hours to unwind and send

Sweet coma elixirs. By the ticking

Of dead minutes hidden, I lose

Day by day my own reflection.

I can't even hear my own breath escaping.

Insomniac, I'm more damned

Than the Damned,

Without Repose.


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