Three a.m. on an ugly May day.
For if wicked had a shape
it would be his venomed gall.
Left hand swings, drawer of secret things —
small whip, chain collar, love notes and silver rings.
Green flames crawl, consuming the memories.
He inhales the smoke deeper, to ease all his malady.
Right hand finds purchase atop a stack of tomes.
Mindless shuffle through our bored bag of bones.
These forbidden magics — how he met gods and burned down homes.
Nightly he finds himself, medicated on the blood of the earth.
In the books he finds no hope, no future and no love.
All he reads amongst the words
are the souls he lost above.
Not just to sky, easy to mythologize —
but every single spirit that walked all over him.
He dreams of those nights of reckless sin,
flaming hearts like comets in his night.
The taste of genuine, pure love —
never has he known a greater high.
Foolish boy, what are you?
the scent of blood and rot.
Mass grave of ghosts, his worn-out cot.
decorations of bonecraft and giblet.
Lost in his illusions, fooled by his own smoke.
Sickened by the face he sees in the mirror.
Soft mind and shredded heart,
the one true undead führer —
imperial corpse locked in his tower alone.
Buried in tomes of mysticism and old phones,
he sinks deeper into his miserable memory.
Tyrant son borne of three fathers:
Base demon, unfitting keeper, and the voices he found in fog.
second how to maim the hurt,
final how to shape the unholy ring.
In rage and red he found himself,
sensitive boy gone through warrior’s hell.
Doctor with necrotic knowledge.
His healing summons hearts and bodies from their graves
for one more weekend, a carnal, empty charade.
His lips and hands draw infernal circles,
binding empty vessels desperate for someone to stay.
the ones whose wounds wait for darker days.
Yet only the rot sticks on him…
the fool we know as Flay.
blakekathryn
jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
ellievsbear
snowghoul
