Gentle rhythms echoing sounds forgotten pour from the
center of my soul. The words flow, seeking refuge in the
candle light, mingled in the symphony echoing the music of
the lost. Dancing with the shadows chained to the walls, it
becomes smudged by the endless storm of tears. Beneath this
pellucid haze I am a crumpled mass of distortion. My gaze
transfixed by a pool of dirty darkness. Cemented tears
harden its liquid flow. I stare into the filthy abyss, past
the façade of my black lipped smiles and swim in the sea
behind my eyes. Where nothing dwells in the burning flame
of past, quenching the salty longings. Freeing the smoke
from the spectres of time, which beckon the ragged angles
to spread their wings as they fall like the Nefilim they
have become. They discard their wings of pain as they
collide with our earthly souls, impaling themselves on the
phallus of mankind. Their blood bleeding consciousness back
to me, rebuilding the chains of my escape. I an alone as
always in my sepulchral tomb. Drowning in the suffocating
darkness. Its viscous mass locking on the tattered remnants
of my dreams. My shadow’s cinders defy the flames and
diffuse in the wind of my sighs occluding the moon. Hiding
from its black clad daughter, claws lacquered in the blood
of loneliness can now tear at the flesh already rotting in
abandonment. The stench of my pain assaults the air on its
wicked ride. The swirling eddies hypnotize me, as me mind
becomes their image. Drawing me into the fairground of past
laughter. Now only a dilapidated memory. Here the incubus
takes hold, reciting my requiem in sardonic tones. Draining
my existence, which now burns as only embers. Scorching the
spear, breaking down the lascivious thrusts. The blood of
the untouched, my blood, colours the canvas of the sky
awakening the sun. Opening my eyes to darkness. Adjusting
my senses so that I may see behind the blackboard of my
mind, the whitelined scrawl imprints itself in my scars. It
foretells my past, remembers my future, and relives the
present. Writhing and twisting it attempts to free itself
from the knots of the letters formed. All so uniform in
their deceit. Incinerated it burns as the wick of the
candle I hold. The lucid wax burning my fingers as it
hardens to mould my hand. Yet it is the pain I must endure
for the presence of light. The wax becomes my cocoon as I
sit alone. Harboring me from the ice of mocking eyes and
the fire of burning tongues. All wanting to consume. To
reduce to cinders in their flames of fear. But in my museum
of wax I become the mannequins I abhor. And all the fire
does is melt my painted smile as the butterfly languidly
dances within. I feel its pervaded presence, its beauty.
But no one else can see it. Even the mirror betrays me in
its jealousy. For it sings the song of the nefarious, and
splinters my image to nail the pieces into my heart and
then deeper still to the unforgiving reality. This is where
my body dwells. But my mind travels above the levels of
consciousness and beyond…