sangfroid

 
 
 
Hunger.
Too redundant for horror.
Each night to feed wrapped in repugnancy.
Hidden, alone, hunting streets of death.
No hope, nothing legitimate.
Days escaped in self-made mausoleum;
no relief of dreams, blocking memories,
enduring.
Creature of  frigid streets, abandoned.
Preternaturally cruel air.  Sulphur, tar,
stench of rot sans remorse or resolution.
Unnatural world devoid of end or warmth.
Even when blood runs hot into aching jaws,
metallic, raw,
no heat penetrates.
Nights stretch to nowhere.
More filth, barbarity
too familiar to offend
solitary stalkers crowding all the secret places.
There is no exit here.
No respite, release of sleep, no prayer to soft salvation.
There is only eternal degradation of soul.
Not possibility, no properties of love or fond relation.
Trial of existence with no useful expression, no expiration.
Yet in this ceaseless odium, this carnal Hell,
in this my desolate home, cold, without mercy,
in this cage of unrelenting dark,
a spark, a circle red and black calls to enter.
Here, where awareness centers, threads of bleeding vein
play at art, at shocking beauty.
.
.
.
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