I always found the
taste of Heaven stale,
like coffee three days old.
I prefer to spend my nights
in graveyards with ghosts,
in the company of stone angels
and cemetery cats
whispering my secrets to the dead.
The setting sun casts
dying fingers of soft orange light
through rusting iron gates,
lobbing sharp, offensive shadows
across these cold granite faces.
Above, an unkindness of ravens
caw their unspeakable truth.
Of late, I have been known
to sing with them.
My darkness is a sanctuary,
my voice a broken prayer.
My hope deeply planted
in this field of shattered bones
awaiting a resurrection
that shall never come.
Here among the sleeping dead
I have lain down many times,
and in the stillness of the night
have heard my death composed.
The Winter Bites My Bones 
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I am in awe of the beauty you write. Maybe if you are up for it you will collaborate on something with me? If you want email me 🙂
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I would love to do a collaboration with you. Email me at dennis.l.mchale@gmail.com. Look forward to hearing from you. Dennis
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Lovely work! 🙂 This is so atmospheric, really great!
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Thanks, Anne!
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I really like this, I have always found a comfort in graveyards.
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I thought I was one of the only freaks who enjoyed graveyards. Ironically, they give me hope.
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No, your not alone, I always feel so at peace there.
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