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Confession Session to the Dead

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I laugh and mimick the possision in which you lay;

Hands knotted together, eyes closed, casket open and

Sinful heart.

I laugh and confess,

I cry and confess,

I pace around the casket and confess.

I lie in a coffin, oh so like yours,

And grin foolishly while I spill and confess.

I trace my finger down your cold jaw,

And blather on of my woes,

My faulities,

My sins.

I play with your cold eyelids, looking at the

Glazed eyes underneath,

And ramble on of my enemies,

My lovers,

And you.

I smile as I think of the night when I

Killed you,

Of the day when the maid

Found you,

Of the twilight when the people

Sobbed over you.

I lay in a casket, oh so like yours,

And think of the night when I

Thrust my blade into your heart.

It was my sin.

It was my blade.

It was my love.

I must go, dear lover,

But before I go I look at your

Pale face.

So like a moon.

My eyes are the levees which failed to work and flooded

New Orleans.

Your heart is the heartbreak the old man feels when his lover's heart can't beat

Anymore.

I confess, I confess, and I take out my blade,

I cut the small hole in my chest and dig.

There.

I take out my heart and place it in your dead hands.

That beating, bleeding, hurting, loving, incredible thing, oh so like yours,

Of which I

Stopped--

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