N-bombing the netherworld!

This place is a graveyard, a barren expanse pervaded by death’s unapologetic fragrance. In shallow unmarked pits lie rotting many hopes, many dreams, many voiceless desires, all unfulfilled, incomplete, merging into one another, shaping death’s forlorn face. Night and day they waste away; the stench of their decay spreads far and wide, carrying death on its sprawling wings, withering every sign of life in its path. Life in this desolation is only known through the touch of death. Then comes the night of death’s helpless retreat; one night in a long chain of putrid nights and days, the ephemeral night of the ivory moon. And she sings, this gentle moon with celestial lips, the melancholy stars her willing chorus. She sings, this magical moon with honey voice, a balmy serenade, stirring all that is dead and decaying, singing them out of their shallow unmarked pits, separating them one by one from the morbid mass of death. They emerge, these many hopes, dreams, unvoiced desires, ghosts of what they used to be, reveling, banshee-like, in an unbridled frenzy, calling out for the moon, reaching for it, yet remaining unfulfilled, incomplete. For as sure as the miracle night is fleeting and the life-breathing song brief, the solemn, uncaring sun climbs up into the colorless horizon. With the easy conceit of the eternal monarch, he blots out the dreamy moon in his harsh, all-encompassing glare, beginning another seemingly endless chain of death-infused nights and days. And all hopes, dreams, unspoken desires withdraw, scorched, blinded, into their shallow unmarked pits, into the impenetrable folds of death’s shameless odor, unfulfilled, incomplete, awaiting the night of transitory life, the night of the ivory moon. For this place is a graveyard, the unending wasteland of my soul.