he shook hands
with the purple coat lady
in a beer house on top of asphalt hill
a wax sealed deal
where she exchanged a gold pen
which inked dreams
in the sleep of the those yet born.

agreeing to meet under the next blood moon
at a cathedral
where cracked and crumbling tombstones stood
surrounded by heaps of shattered glass
and limbs rose through the soil
of trench dug graves
covered in weaving ivy
and rotting pine leaves.

littered cigarette stumps
mixed in gravel and schist
sliced by brick red stones
scattered across the path
scalding hot from baking in a crematory oven
in the circling mists of hysterical madness
spread across the dark shimmering topaz.

under that ballooned
blood moon they met
and the purple cloaked lady
cut out his tongue as payment
for their hand shook agreement
while also casting a spell
turning him invisible.

he spent the remaining days and nights
of his life writing pages and pages
inked by the golden pen in foggy tuned silence
alone in the pinstriped confinement of his room
never to speak or be seen again.

those pages paint the dreams of all who read them
even after his lonely life met death's bed of eternal rest.