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Where do I begin?
On the days when the sun shines through me like she's forgot my name?
Or the nights that never will. What is it that blows through you when all else is still?
They conspire cruelly to lure you with fatigue, only to pounce when dark sets in.
I want to lash out at them, but they are not there.
Never are.
Right now, somewhere in Hell, a demon grins
His plantings know no season, his harvest is time infinite. They're fed with sorrow and pruned with misery, blossoming with decay and neglect. The fruits do not lie wanting. They are clammored over and consumed with relish. Till gorged, you want to vomit this foul meal. It clings in your throat and locks in your bowels the vines whipping their way through your veins.
You will not spit this out.
It is yours.
A House I Know of
Each night, I return home To my house, one I know too well; it's builder not. I visit the rooms, one by one. They're all there, all beautiful. But then there's a door not opened, never was. I go through to find my house has more than I knew before. Urged on by curiosity that cannot be contained, I explore all I can. Suddenly, the rooms are not as before. They're dank, musty and dark, lifeless. I regret finding them, and wish the knowledge of them to vanish. But yet they remain.
I look for a window to open, to let in some blessed light, but there are none. What happened to my splendid view? I long to see roses, but see only peeling paint, covered furniture and decay. Did I leave this house in such disrepair? I sit down and wonder. There are so many rooms, too many. The thought of the infinite number gives way to a terrible realization of where I must be.
Frantically I try and retrace my steps. I run for hours through the house till finally I collapse. There is no way out. There are no more windows. What light there was is replaced by sorrow so heavy it crushes the breath from your lungs. Now I want to cry out but can't. Inside, I scream for a morning I feel will never come.
And if it does, please God, don't find me here.
Leaving the
Mountaintop
Most mornings, when I awake there stands in front of me a mountain, of such huge proportions as to stagger the imagination, and stifle the soul. But, I sometimes get my revenge on the mountain.
Some nights, I never know when, I'm on top of that mountain. I know what to do next. I can feel the grip of those dark creatures losing their grasp on my soul, sliding miserably down my body, till they barely touch me at all. A feeling of peace and tranquility swells in it's place. I don't move. Don't dare. Suddenly, I feel I can do it. I fall forward, with the knowledge I will not hit the earth.
And then it happens. I am uplifted, free of the bounds and constraints of those wretched creatures. I feel their pathetic grasping at my ankles, but for them, it's too late. I drift. To move forward is to but desire it. Effortless, the feeling grows and the joy that has replaced the pain fuels my flight. Never to remember where I've gone, for it seems to matter not, only that the journey has been taken.
I awake, feeling for once I have truly been free. If only for one night.
Peace
Till . . . .
I dream in whispers, thoughts perverse. Unspeakable today, eloquent by night. A danse macabre without end. Who speaks? Who holds the court? It can't be I. Scenes of slaughter and carnage to make the mind want to rip it's way out of the bones that hold it prisoner.
To realish these deeds is to be damned.
Yet, I do.
Till......
Solitude's Kiss
She walks on the windA soulless wisp moved on by the wail of the tormentedA gasp from the forgotten, a tear from the fearfulwill bring her to youNot always will she hearbut when drawn nearshe'll cover you with her cloak of forgetfulnessand kiss you like no lover ever couldHer breath sweet as a roseyet cold as the deadI fear her approach, her embracebut cannot deny her wantsWe kissIf only for awhileI'm alive
Behemouth
Turnkey
