There is a certain magic in a cemetery,
as though the souls of the long gone
or recently departed
are weaving new stories through us,
providing the scripts for their own entertainment
because they have escaped the consequences
that we will wake up to in the morning.
Perhaps it is the grainy feeling of cold cement beneath my hands,
the darkness that is eerie only until we are drunk,
mixing liquors we don't really like
to get to a place we've never really been.
Then, it is our playground,
it is the setting for our escapades,
our slurred philosophies about sin and religion,
or desertion
(drunks are honest by nature).
It is the door to the world only seen
in beat poetry and indie movies,
and we have been initiated,
tapped by the ghostly hands
of those who have not given up living
just yet.