Space, the final graveyard

The first time I saw it
I knew we would have a bittersweet relationship;
a sci-fi book about spacewrecks,
hardly my piece of choice
the morbid subject normally too dark for me
but I had a grim fascination with it
the late 70's artwork majestic and magnificent
yet disturbing with its weird warped perspective
with vibrant colours yet somehow
the definition somehow slightly off
giving it all a fever dream feel;
where the senses are assaulted
and gut instinct knows something is wrong
but cannot clearly say exactly what that is.
The rusted part skeletal remains of spacecraft
in full fold out gory glory,
the likes of which I had never seen before
accompanied by short stories
that only left more questions than answers
the forbidding lure pulling onwards
until I could take no more
and had to hide the book away on the bookshelf
there to dwell out of sight
until curiosity and recalling flashes of the horrors
meant I would open the strange volume once again
to suffer the unpleasant sensations anew;
never enough to invade my nightmares
but more disturbingly plant themselves in memory
to sprout in the future unknown
and start the creepy journey again.
Perhaps the hardcover book sits the attic
seeking to be seen,
or perhaps it went away in the great purge
gone with so many others
when the bookshelf was cleared and removed;
physically gone but its insidious taint
still remembered
brought afresh and renewed by an internet search;
a dozen pictures already enough
to put me off discovering anymore,
for now.