By Julia-Anne Crow 2019
Each spot of my honeyed body is a crucible of unseen torment, the tombstone of some perished kiss. Withal its beauty and its faultless grace, my body, my mind, my heart, is a haunted place.
Clouded by tears, shredded by wind, ragged from their lies; ravaged by night, abandoned by day, those shadows within the gray; therein resides my house of flesh.
My mind has broken. My bone has cracked. My blood has clot. My heart has stopped. My flesh has rot.
I sleep the sleep of gray, where the gold and purple of living fall away. Here I lie beside the bustling of life, past pain or joy, desire or fear. I am the seeing, filled with life, dying of death. Shrouded in weeds, buried in sour soil. Silent I wait. There is no healing
where I decay. Nothing is sound. Everything an unheard scream. Silent, I wait. Waiting still, inside my house of flesh.
I must choose…sleep or madness. I go now to sleep that gray and soundless sleep. My shattered marrow becoming the silent nothing, the deafening darkness, the cold, oh so very cold emptiness. Warmed only by my pathetic native fire, that lean and flickering flame, lit upon my mortal hearth to comfort me in Autumn’s decay. For it may warm, if not the spirit or the heart, maybe, perhaps, at least my chilled bones yet awhile.
I ponder the thoughts of the dark dreaming. Are these not the words of some shadowed and cowardly devil flickering from within my living dust? Would it not be better to go mad and rave, to court the fair illusion of a greater fire? Or would it be more worthy of a life lived fully to let that gray and suffocating dust fill my lungs and bring my breaths to a crawl?
Coiled inside my empty belly, my serpent’s fiery tongue licks these cold, tired lips, and reveals this truth to me…
Death is death and even madness should soon play me false. Better to sleep, better to close the curtains tight against the treacherous laughter of the Light, and sleep with yet a little fire on the hearth. Then when the last torrid tongue flickers and is gone, the lucky sleeper knows it not.
I whisper inside my own ear, “Go now fair lady and sleep.”
My birth, my youth, my prime, my proud excess, my cosmic fall; it has become my mean prize of poverty and dull decline. My lean possessions now shrunk to fill a little box. All my senses, my delights, turned pale and leached of taste. All have ended, I am all that’s left to fill the silences between the ticks of time. I, my dearest, foolish self, becoming bloodless, reduced to a scentless draught that rusts my heart into a ticking clock.
So, now I sleep with the end, the Gray. Though blood and flesh not be shed, I have found the spire built from my haunted despair. My mirror of madness reflects only my dark perfection. For now and tomorrow and ever.
I am my own wolf sun, now colder than ice. No longer dancing in that musical moonlight. No longer graced with my human darkness clinging. That distant ruby-silver glow, fading from my sight, covering myself with dust, sleeping the sleep of the gray, forever cherished by the loyal and loving night.
Fuck. Really? I can’t even contemplate life’s inevitable regurgitating bullshit without analyzing it inside my head like some drunken, goth-like, poet. I mean, for fuck’s sake. Grow up buttercup.