We All Float Down Here

A dusty shelf, home to spilling volumes & hidden pages
The click of clandestine mechanics, the latch releases & the door swings open
Oh the scalpels & blood-flecked dresses, spattered lace atop of perfumed letters
These night-lit mementoes snatched from under a rotund swollen moon
Phantom flesh still writhes beneath your leather-gloved fingertips
Her strangled screams still haunt the sickly-sweet summer air

Pry open the casket, smile framed by the light of the spirit lamp
On the early evening of her funeral day, she looks as pretty as always
Sophie rides shot-gun as you drive the long way, one hand rests atop of hers
Her flesh now as cold as her wedding ring, but her heart stills burns like a ravenous furnace
Once home, pour two glasses of cheap Merlot and raise hers to Arden-smeared lips
Twin red rivers trickle from the corners of her mouth
Glen Miller serenades by moonlight as you entwine throughout the night
And as the morning sun begins to yawn, let the blade caress your wrists in one last goodbye kiss

 You may find the former quite disturbing but something that I truly do know
Is that the "Sociopath of the Summer", lies simmering just below the surface
We all have a fictional town that we choose to so fondly vacation in
Quiet and still, away from distractions and without a soul we know
To watch over us as that dark candle burns into the night

The title of this piece was lifted from the 1990 Stephen King movie IT.