This Place

this place is nothing but a graveyard with no ghosts.
I imagine I  can see you in the clouds, or I sit in the sun sometimes and pretend that warmth is just you being you
it’s never really foggy here but if it was I’d never be alone,
and walk in an army of your remains.
every morning I wake with a new cure,
and exonerate myself and vindicate your sins within me. imagine some brand new colour I can become
allowing sympathy and purity to pour from every crack in your defences;
wishing I’d bottled some.
well golden eyes sit in solitude and sing with 9,000 echoes – I am reminded not of your blue eyes but maybe the light in them
if they really are the windows to your soul.
and the ocean would crash furiously, then, against those caves where the golden, mouthless siren lives,
dreaming about you through so many fevers that we inevitably forget ourselves,
but without the initiative to drown ourselves in sanctity, cannot become you
and so sit silently in hollow caves beneath the golden ocean and stare
and stare with.
with dull eyes.