It was all yellow—
So yellow that Fitzgerald writhed;
even dead as he was.
Twisting bones in the dirt.

A ghastly scream of moths and music came from
His mouth—
his mouth that cried as I deeped into
His eyes—
his eyes that were bright LED's leading into
His soul—
his soul that was as empty as those I meet.
He rubbed his Midas hands together nervous
to touch the fur coat he wore.

And I dug him up in his grave and cried over his
mutilated
form. I ripped off the coat and dug out his
wretched
eyes with my fingers. I put gloves of clay on his
abominating
hands and he was pacified.

Then the smiling skull's spirit
filled his bones
And he looked at me through
real eyes, soft eyes
And his face was kind.

And the yellow faded;
pulling away shades of green that
I hadn't seen underneath.

I climbed into his grave and dirt
Rained over the both of us.
As I was covered I felt more alive under the earth
than I had ever felt before;
And you could hear us laugh as we were
entombed.