muted necrophilia in words

Open spaces and vivid nightmares.
Or perhaps,
Rum-soaked queasiness of a solitude shared
With my own self.
A book-sniffing pervert that I am,
I derive all the pleasure from the macabre shadows of your words.
The in-between worlds between lines.

The wandering souls of prose left unfinished.

The rotting flesh of thoughts open to all meanings.

And thus,
I drug my twisted soul,
With millions of your lapses and last moment contradictions.

A thought is crushed unbeknownst to your pen every second,
Quiet,
Solemn,
And mangled between the pages.

For perhaps me to caress.

You're a soul searching hermit in the land of words,
With scavengers like me in the tow.