Gothic Dream

I do not know what it was.
Some urge to sit down and write came over me.
Gothic tales radiate their tune; the lights dim.
What shall I write? Dream.

I pulled off my scalp,
cracked open my skull,
mashed my fingers in
and parted my mind.

Running like blood,
thoughts stream
down my face
upon the page.

I looked up
into the blinding sun,
its rays skewered
the darkness of my eyes.

Oh, these hollow sockets
swallow the lighted world.
I fall back,
an eyeless creature.

The spotlight of my soul
pierces the dusk hue
as I crash upon the floor
of the Gothic Forest.

The foundations of my body fracture.
These bones splinter as kindling
for the coming inferno
that quenches metaphor’s thirst.

This body lay broken, dead.
The Gothic Forest accepts this cadaver as now its own.
The vines of its being,
slither through ash, bone, and make their claim.

My soul lives on,
beaming from these sockets,
splashing its reflection
on the world around.