Memoirs from Beyond the Grave
When I woke, my tomb was full of ghosts
rattling the locked door, pounding the walls,
and each shade spoke fears twisted with hopes.
Press your ear to the ground—hear their calls?
“Earth turns on the hinge of heaven’s gates,
birth burns through the dark of the womb,
we’re cloths of flame woven by the fates,
our hearts yearn through the scar of the tomb.
The black fires of memory burn slow,
the waters of forgetting run deep,
even blood in the dirt yearns to flow—
you know only the dead never sleep.”