Burial Place of the Heathen

I fall asleep upon a bed of open urns,
The ashes spread out like feathers of a down.
Pillow sweep, blankets warmed to a smolder.
I am dormant by the incense of burnt flesh.

Bitter anesthetic, my room is dark.
Shadowless, corners there are not.
Pitch. Black. I am the light
Which remains. Here,
Where silence is my candle
And the wind is a shout.

So hush, dear sandmen,
Beware your blasphemy.
Dream no dreams.
Quiet your thought train.
And if you dare to breathe,

Enter at your own risk.
The tomb is a shoreline of dust
And a passage into brimstone.


10/21/14