Under and Over

I brought my shovel
down beyond Pluto’s scowl and boat.
Over hills or pastures, between
interviews with nature I
my booted foot did set, upon
a root that was from some
May rain wet.  In turn
I ventured with my dark
metallurgy and down the dirt crept.
I could feel forests of
upended dreams, never with
the touch of talent rendered.  I felt
groves of eyes some hand had in
glass set, their pupils turned towards the
brightest lines and darkness despised.
I grew closer as I felt the
candles burn, their cena scenes
splayed out on wooden imprints
of foils turned.  All those ashy inks – unheard.
And deeper I went ’till I passed
upon a glade, the opening
widowed from all the muses it
had made.  Passing ghouls were
all one could see, their bleeding
faces looking for mirrors, trying
to find the period in l’abîme et moi.
But our words went on, endlessly

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