Absent desire, but alacritous disdain, the vestiges of his mortality drift away; away with his memories, as dandelion passengers in the fading light of day

Sinister sickles punctuate the path as undeserved smiles shed in their fall from grace; the seashell razors left behind as reminders where not to tread

Happiness hewn begets a visage of cold, cracked stone; unnatural edges, yet an attrition of angles, accentuate the homely crag that teeters atop the crumbling mountain

Penance is no longer a means to maintain control, as madness molts like withering leaves within the pluviose violence of a forgotten forest

In the distance, the thunderclaps for the windsong, while a soul cowers in the shadows of the blood-crusted, rust-dusted walls of ineptitude and solitude

Empty is the hand that chokes the empty heart; a husk, a placeholder for life, this human simulacrum awaits the corporeal waste of time to catch up to his own

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński


Published by a.d.matthias

no w here

%d bloggers like this: