what else
alienates me from everything, myself
in this empty desolate beautiful home
could it be emptier
i mourn, mourn, mourn
open that door and face the ghosts
tumbling out
blind unseeing fumbling out
with their musty smells and unsettling whispers
meet the ghosts
embrace the ghosts
and still not understand
what is it they mourn, mourn, mourn
cognition.
there are the ghosts
and there is me
but there is a door
between these dimensions
a warp that may not be crossed
and we just mourn, mourn, mourn
temperature rises
creeping up
with the afternoon
before you'd know it
its over
and all I've done is
mourn, mourn, mourn
evenings fall
nights pass
and I wake up in the dawn
and when I linger
until I get up
i have only
mourned, mourned, mourned
you don't understand it
that was mine
which I mourn, mourn, mourn
i could nag him
oh I could fight him
and mourn, mourn, mourn
he knew my madness
and would live with it
when I mourned, mourned, mourned.
