Prospects

The breathing graveyard,
where death provides the bliss emission
from festered shell to free romance
without restriction.
Where beating strains
of fresh breath can be found
within every cushioned coffin,
crushed beneath solemn soils.
Where lively eyes
pass thoughts of endless ecstasy,
pupil to pupil, the dilated pleasure
of memories, intermingled.

Soul to soul,
a new gate becomes flooded
with pure ideals, provided by insight.
An insight to prospects in romance.
Love's longevity,
locked in the soils
owned by nothing
and providing little comfort.
The passage opens,
the gaping mouth of mourning.
The swelling breast that ceased once,
ceases once again, knowing and willing,
and returning to clammy warmth,
in an incomplete environment
where lust envies romance,
embracing the crowds
who seek their final prospects.