shadows of my thoughts

memories of broken hearts
three times over
regenerate like
some sick freak
in a horror movie

and yet this is where it's
made

marked on a tombstone
I carry fresh writing
to not so fresh soggy
brown graves
under
grass, worms, and roots

I look at the graves,
and they're all the same,
gray stone slabs
and
dirt
dirt
dirt

I look towards the beginning
and I see a mausoleum for one
that I visit every so often

I would leave flowers but that
would be pathetic

the past does not go
further down than it already is,
past and hell and back around
through China

I would lay there with them,
but they're dead,
and it there isn't a good enough
reason to do that