Things Are Strange

Things are strange,
thoughts crowned with barbed wire
haunt the hallways of existence
in the castle of the mind.

I hear the mechanical moans
of serenity, a maiden tied
to the tree of impossibility,
hopeless staring
at a counterfeit moon
while I dine and drink
to the wreckage of a dream,
on dying light and broken glass.

Sex is a mirror full of snakes,
death overflows with honey
and apathy is the succubus
that consumes the clock
as I pray to gods of melting wax
for the stillness of dew,
the sleep of graveyard moss.