Fields of Asphodel

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There is a subdued chaos lying

under our feet.

Stagnant 

near-perfection

in our dreams. 

Asphodel nightmares.

An ocean of people

just left from

Elysium.

How many of us

have you seen,

Acheron?

I see the

dead cypress roots wor-

ming  their way into

line after

line of poetry and

hate you.

Are you hateless too?

Sometimes I wonder if

the shades knew that

Lethe

is Greek for oblivion

or if they capitalise their 'i's

even after they lose themselves

wandering.

 (Sometimes I wonder

if I'm just another 

s h a d o w

flitting across

these blank pages;

ghostly

flower bookmark

pretending to be

immortal.)

Maybe the reason I am

in love with nameless,

faceless narrators is because

I don't want to be one myself. 

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