{Excerpt}

I recede to the shadows, a temperamental corner in a barren room, harsh angular lines and edges, segmenting the false light of thought,

I adorn my shroud, my feet and the whitewashed floorboards, cold-for-cold, my toes stir motes of dust and particles of death, I watch as they compose and alight, upon a rain rotten sill of discarded life,

disintegrating wings and decomposing husks,

I train my eyes to the warped panes of glass, a figment of wonder in the plane of sight, a skewed reflection of a beast salivating, broken-jointed and crawling,

a Jacob’s ladder of spider filament, the caul on the face of a devil, the bridal cap of a lady, beetle deeds undone and turned out,

Within a cubic chamber, carved into a cabinet of curiosities, of Pandora’s own giving, hands embrace a false god, a false expectation,

I martyr my own heart, to escape the empty promises those hands of similar likeness spill, throwing its still beating form, to the malformed beast, who tears at it, exsanguinating and stunting, devouring its nucleus

I succor the loss, my own hand pumping rhythm, echoing the cavern walls, in Fatum,

My depiction, ichor of my aorta, stains the beast’s flesh, in destruction, and it’s back arches, its neck flails in maniacal laughter, its disjointed return to my hide

The window, encapsulating star bodies, fury and inferno, a coruscating display of drama unfolding, the beast, its mouth of putrefaction and pestilence, at my neck in wait,

I steal its hand and blind my sight, in globe anguish, the window ruptures, my fingers plucking dreams from the depths of their ocular beds,

and I listen as they write pandemonium, indecipherable prognostication, at the beast’s escape, its rapacity in fruitless bay, as hope is eternally frayed

E.A. O'Connell. November 2018