Is there somewhere else
I’d rather dwell instead?
Than to dwell, as I dwell now,
among the dead?
Wouldn’t it be nightly
hell to go to bed
where I’m defenseless prey
against a graveyard’s spell
at every end of every day?
Why do I love to live this way?
Perhaps because both love
and life are never more
excited and requited
than by prospects of their
imminent demise.
Perhaps that’s why those
phallic obelisks delight
my eyes.
.
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