He lies still and his
breathing dries,
Up into the air, cries and
despair.
You forget what you are doing,
Where you are, what you did.
Your heart thumping, stops.
He parts, it drops.
His head in your hands,
You cover his ears,
Hide the truth
And fears of lost youth,
Silence grim demands.
Your breathing is frantic.
You’re struggling to stand,
So you kneel over where he
lay,
Back and forth, you sway,
Holding your head as if the
weight
Could turn the earth the other
way.
Cold tears in the night air,
You take the weight home and
into a chair
Of dizziness and blindness,
You sleep and you stare.
Like an animal hit by a car,
Helpless, amazed, wide eyes
dazed,
Bleeding, as thoughts race
into the distance,
Hiding as death is ushered in.
Waking up to the sun bringing
noise
And noise taking peace,
Your mind contorted by the
careless crease.
He lies still on the kitchen
table.
You closer stand, inspecting a
hand.
The fainting of the eyelids
and tips of finger
Could not in the least bit,
love, deter.
Turning from, spurning what
fashes
Of such a beauty, foreign as
ashes.
Wave-spirits ride through your
shirtless side,
You open and close the
cupboard doors,
Searching in darkness for
yeast's loyal bride.
A jar of white flour and
dampened cloth,
Fully to oust phantom Goths
creeping in,
Upon his skin seeps
discoloration.
Flour shrooms into the air
And helpless, stands,
As you cover with care
The eyelids and hands,
Silencing grim demands.
The little life that rose with
flour
Fades and sours the reason
that grows,
And now in prim rows, like
tears ‘cross the nose,
You wash off the face.
Get a knife with reluctance.
He lies so peaceably,
Filled with expectancy.
Wiping your eyes, feeling your
face
Cold as the knife and spirits
which hover.
Writhing with strife and
dryness all over,
You almost prefer bladeing
yourself to relieve
A thought you conceived,
Then darkly weaved.
As logic leaves,
Fascination grieves.
Atop the table, then carefully
straddle
As if he were the Serpent
himself
And waking what lie, bound you
to Hell.
Darkness befell face against
face.
Now those lovely eyes
Are behind a disguise.
You look and look the wane’ed
face,
Then place the blade on the
temple,
Press, and simple, drag it
‘round
Under the chin to the other
side again –
And then a softer shade.
The blood follows the blade.
The trail leaves you weak.
Death was sheik and hid behind
jail –
A bloodless, pale lore.
Now a few times more
Around before
You've unhinged the door,
Pealing back the skin,
Looking from within.
The eyes are red and restless,
bare.
You turn off the light,
staring in fright
As the bestial creature glares
past present sight
And future existence, leaving
reason and oblation
To instance oblivion's
indignation.
In a gasp, horror falls
through you,
Beyond the darkest cells of
dementia.
The body rises with screams
from inside.
Voices clash and deepen, hide.
Laughter sent higher, into the
head,
Moans as a wench is monstrously
wed.
The eyes, the eyes ever-open,
alive
With fiery scorn for the
steady knife.
You watch as he coils,
withholding aggression,
Thrashes loose in anguish of
possession.
You hesitate, are caught by
the sleeve,
Wrenching away in a horrifying
heave.
The eyes frying, holding you
in,
You lunge back, violently
tearing at the skin.
He catches fire and darkness
thins.
You fall to your knees and
helpless, freeze.
Lines drawn across your chest
with ease,
A cold-blooded claw reaches
into your guts
And up toward the heart, under
ribs it cuts.
You shiver like it all has
stopped
Or soul has dropped into
darkness.
[1] Skadi is the
anglicized version of Skaði, a Norse goddess who is believed to have brought
the wrath of winter as a result of her father’s death.
