...

The dead sound their rise, an empty glass bottle hum, a low percussive wind, I slip away into a realm of unreality, where their touch doesn’t steal me in breath, they shadow sway in mimic of willow boughs, a rise of anger grips me at their manipulation, I look to the serrated blade of silver light upon the wall, rain splattered horror adding a depth, I raise my hand to its possibilities, it catches my flesh, my mouth wild with tastebuds blooming, I lick at the severed flesh, the taste of death, they inch closer, riveted by the romance of survival and my not giving a damn, crossover, my boredom an unregistered tone, they simply stare, mesmerized and motionless, unaware of their opened door and gaping mouths, of which I rob each their tongue, bundling the fleshy arrangement with threads I pull from their funeral attire, I toss the bouquet to the dark corner lurking behind the moonlight, issuing forth an ebon figure that parts the dead and forces them through the floor, eyes of pitch meet me glare for glare, love, a promise made to me in growl, to which I laugh, evil, a bruising insult I accept as accolade, crossover, an order that halts me, an arrow straight through me, precise aim, torturous beings, we forget how we once would interact, I blow a kiss and the moon burns out

E.A. O'Connell