Confession Session to the Dead

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--
Category:Jenna
Category:Jenna Fraen
Category:Poetry
Category:Death
Category:Poems
Category:Completed Stories/Poems