come the children, through a dream i wove

in the hours

defying sun

the lonely moon

that wets the rum

makes me forget

how far away

there isn't one

there isn't an end

or an introduction,

there isn't a madness

that could, for the sake

of madness, be

explained

but by all extensions of sanity

this path through

is the path i shouldn't take

nor the path that should exist,

yet here it is

between the faded faces

of a forest once alive

but is now

writhing

the rolling fog

harbinger of ghoulish chill

and ghastly haze,

the ghosts of petals crumbled

and sparrows turned;

the goblins that reap

fields of moonlight wheat

for whiskey and evil

means

come the children, through this dream i wove

alone forever, never not--

for here, with me, you'll always rot