Sojourners in a Waking Dreamscape

Ruinous and criminal, its thick fingers
          linger impatiently in the mind’s
dim-lit lobby. Impossibly adamant,
          our perturbed choruses of vacant
shadows wander corridors as those blind songs
          without words. Twinned thoughts from one sentence

paroled, our crime’s echoed remorse some sentence
          haunting one skull’s tormented drum songs
hollow. Voiceless regret no lover’s vacant
          lips allow to travel throats fingers,
once swallowed, cause to stick out. Fists adamant
          this breath of ours must choke on what minds

demand remain unspoken for some time. Mine’s
          only a note, time’s hands adamant
yours follow it. Explore with mouth what fingers
          traversing my body miss, that sentence
written on my ribs telling you they’re vacant,
          that this cage pines for a heart with songs

your tongue should cherish. Lick ravenous these songs
          emptiness opens its pit vacant
for enemies to fill in with one sentence
          kisses turn to lyrics. Filth which mines
every orifice it finds with fingers
          dirtier than a priest’s adamant

to chastise bodies he envies. Adamant
          is my own to be your host, fingers
alone empty promises only a mind’s
          derelict home can compete with songs
like these to enthrone. Sojourners who sentence
          their fantasies to night writhe vacant

beds day’s waking dreamscape paints vivid. Vacant
          is this chamber’s resounding sentence
you torture me with when you will not heed songs
          its veins faint to spit, blood adamant
to be sipped. Drink in these whispers blowing minds
          the way I wish you’d grip with fingers

          what secret pleasures won’t leave these lips. Taste songs
                    bent around flesh whistling adamant
          crescendos we both know break players’ fingers.