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Date Posted: 14:21:21 05/04/01 Fri
Author: Paris Lovecraft
Subject: Daydreams of Nightthings

Breath shallowly
the night; is the
air gone yet? Can
i live freely?
The bulb shatters,
the light goes out,
bare feet upon
the glass as penance for
the footsteps left there.
The crimes of the heart are
not artful circumstances, are
not fearful confessions, are
not bloodless hands clawing
at a breathless chest.
The crimes of the heart are
daydreams of nightthings that cater to things
at the gasping hour of midnight
when the moon weighs heavily upon
the heads of the insane, the sun
on the heads of the mundane.




paris.

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