Night has Fallen

A cradle lay abandoned

in a darkening room,

as one by one a dozen candles

expire near a forgotten shrine.

 

A bird of prey

perches atop a barren olive branch–

Lord of a dying habitat.

Night has fallen.

 

3-21-19

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After the Rope Breaks

A crow caws

From the skeletal branches

Of the dying tree before me.

It jutts out,

Spear-like,

From the rocky waste

Where I lie broken.

 

A squirrel scampers up and down

Its rotten trunk,

And in my fog

I think he is

Ratatoskr,

Carrying insults

Between the eagle

And the serpent.

 

I try to shout at him,

Tell him to stop,

But my mouth is dust–

Gritty,

And tasting of chalk.

All that comes out

Is a sputter.

 

The world spins.

I heave and retch

From the coppery scent

Of coagulation

Filling my nostrils.

 

Fevered,

I look to the tree,

Searching for Hangi,

But there is just a dying tree,

And no secrets,

This time,

To pull from the well.

 

3-19-19

 

How it Ends for Me

A small

rip,

then a little

tear,

and then another,

and the next thing I know

shredded

bits

go flying through

the air,

like a blizzard

of blood

kicking up ragged bits

of my obliterated

heart.

 

There is something

almost magical

in the

horror

and the beauty

of the remnants of my soul

as they lazily drift

to the ground

in sharply defined

stillness,

one so still,

even Echo herself

has fled.

 

The screams are gone now,

as are the tears;

I can find no more

inside me,

just a hazy maroon

sunset

of blood in light

fading into the darkness,

and the smell of

rot.

6-14-18

Her

The cockroach scampers

over a half-eaten

apple

on the altar.

The sick-sweet stench

of rot

hangs thick,

like a noxious

mist.

 

The air is littered

with dying things.

The wind shrieks

and there is a whirring

in my ears.

I can not keep

my balance.

 

Everything

breaks down

around me;

a rolling process

separating

what is

into less and less

substantial

forms.

 

I can taste the stale

mold,

dusty and choking,

its spores

filling my lungs.

 

I greet

Her–

the reality behind

life’s illusion;

its nourishment,

its origins,

as well as its

endings.

5-3-18

Monkshood

Monkshood,

Would you dance with me?

Beloved aconite,

I would swim within your arms,

and never would I fight.

 

Lay me down in bitter sleep,

Take me to my dreams.

Let the world be ripped asunder,

Nothing’s what it seems.

 

6-15-14

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