Discord and the blue hymnal

I have
an audience of
empty church pews
in my heart-basement:

some sort of
human-geographical
hot-spot
for shitty weather
and nuclear war.

I'm losing
poetry
like I've lost
Lovers:

A dying mess
of black octopus
ink.

No tongue
reaching into
mysterious
reservoirs,
no star spools
in lumpy, dark
ponds.

I've built and
spilt
a city of miasma:
I breath it in,
exhale
and repeat
like rain.

At times
I see messages
from Morpheus:

"Please make
markers in this
devil fog
and no longer
dream of
somewhere else".