Mea Culpa

Assuaging a mea culpa a fortnight before the gibbons end my last rodeo."The dark art of my analysis is all BS unless London Bridge is falling. E-I-E-I-O."
  
With conversations, with my friend Mad Hatter. It dawned on me that Alice wasn't coming back through the looking glass. She had been a figment of my imagination. I had left her in the inkwell alone with her past.  
Alone with the spore of my gothic quill.  
 
Death is between the dust jacket and the words in my biography. The letters on the pages start falling to the floor scattering, with reckless ineptitude, as I listen to echoes of the past. "Done, living as before." With stains dripping from me, evermore.  
 
Dark as a weathered stone with obsidian wings of gothic bones morphing to twilight in my insomnia, listening to the dripping of pneumonia, from the ballast of my mind caressing the marble statues of the immortals Holy Grail of death on the vine.  
 
"Dark's umbilical sleeve, reaching, giving life in the twilight, cupping my ears of insanity's incoherences from my mind's embryo with wrinkles in the furrows of the dead. Toward the winds rising in the coal between  devil's teats."  
 
In the distance, the flickering light of obscene sipping the night away with a midnight whistle like a lonely bird as a locomotive crossed over into twilight passing, dreams of nocturnal songs. Stopping at a depot to collect old souls who lost their way in life. "Everbody knows one." Leaving a long smoke veil as it screams a bye and bye. But it's only a matter of the Engine That Could.  
 
Screaming through the woods of Hell's Ponderosa, listening to the trees quake as the devil's eyes shine. Now pallor corpses with pallid bark, reaching into the sky as if singing an aria's acapella of satanic verses to the dark winds below.  
 
Headless shadows appear, looking out the railcar windows looking for their lost heads. Then I recognize my head rolling to my shoes. Then  
the conductor shouting, "all aboard!"  
 
The weatherboard of my sanity, now peeling layers of my mind's latex as my world becomes a morphosis of shadows steamrolling over my mind's vortex stirring up the cloven hoof heathen. Seasoning in the brine of my poetic circumstance, as I sniff the night away with visions of my demise, scribbling yesterday's whine.    
 
"Being dead ain't the same, as the widow chokes the bow of life's final encore. Playing me a song of memories I wrote. Now a best seller at Barnes & Noble. Slicing the dark with my tongue,  letting it leaven to be my bread."  
 
 "Now listening to the wheels rattle between death and another shore  
haunting the tracks like slippery eels creeping beneath the door."