BASEMENT

Where are these shadows and voices taking me inside the night's rain? It always seems to be the inside of the night's dreams of rain. Let me pour another double, and you can tell me of your trouble on the other side and how it can teach us all a lesson here only if we can walk hand in hand with lost loved ones without tears.

How can this be that I'm walking this land again that the dead only follow the ground that they call the end of make-believe, where you fall to your knees to your prayer and hope somebody is listening to all that you say as you ask the question whether I descended into heaven or hell which one is my wishing well which is my wicked my garden.

I am screaming again as I count my fingers and the hairs on my head for how many minutes I have been dead because these people passing me by do not know. The pages and the book have yet to be written, so I am packing myself and moving back home to the base basements of my mind made of cement.