Mourning

There grows a layer of death over our imaginary maps of arcadia
Silverfish crawl into the valleys and eat away the canvases we were to paint there
Rivers fade
Ashes from the bonfires we were to light smudge the road-signs
Neons flicker and die over deserted roads we were to toss away and head for the hills
Fungus consumes the lines of the beach drawn daringly close to the tent that we were to put up
And we lie awake at night wishing we could somehow lose the map where shadows haunt the dreams of a goddess mourning her priest