If everything you touch turns to gold
and everything I touch turns to ash—
then together
we will sit upon our thrones
of riches and ruin
and make the world bow at our feet.

I can feel myself going
                            down
                            down
                            down
                farther
                       and farther
                       into the rhythm
of my own
               tired
                     eyes
as they struggle to
stay
open.
I can hear myself
                 sinking
in the wordless voices
surrounding           me.
I am          content in
                  drowning myself
      until I can see

       nothing
                    but the darkness
                    of my isolation.
       Here
       is where
I will sleep,
and I will be
                       satisfied.

I can see the tears falling from your eyes
but I don’t hear them hit the ground.
They were swallowed too soon
by the swollen ocean,
dried too quickly
by those silent flames,
but still I long to feel them
frozen at my fingertips.

A thousand mourners gather
and weep over your wilted body,
singing a service of desperation
and hope.
They carve their sorrows into copper
and lay them by your grave
for those yet to follow.
Their grief will not be silent.

We are afraid for the future,
but we know what must be done.
Know that no matter how many tears may fall,
this moment with you will be remembered.

I crossed the path of Bad Luck
on the way home
in the rain.
It approached me carefully, and nestled up
into my outstretched hand,
and closed its eyes.
I gazed into its endless darkness
and felt its warmth
pulsating.
It circled around my legs, then arms,
and perched on my shoulder,
and fell asleep.

It seemed content,
and that was all I needed.

Somewhere
I remember
all that I lost,
all that was taken
from my fractured
soul.

Here
I only feel
the darkness,
the hunger
lurking over my
conscience.

Everywhere
I can taste
the shadows,
caught between
gnashing, eager
teeth.

Still
I hear the music
gently and painfully,
what I was
and what I will yet
become.

Inside
my heart beats
oil and grease,
the endless cycle
of a raw and ******
consumption.

Who was I
when I turned away?
Who was I
when I lost control?
Who was I
when I broke the mirror?

Who was I
when you devoured me?

They came for us.
Mangled distortions
warped and corrupted
from the hidden corners
of our psyche.

We were only children.
Small eyes gazing
fingers grasping
the mountains and forests
we could not see.

It watched from the darkness.
Too vast to comprehend
to hold its form
shifting endlessly
in our thoughts.

We hid our faces.
Shrouded in memories
long since turned away
from what we shared
spoken aloud.

Nowhere was safe.
So we ran from what
we could not accept
towards the shadows
that we consumed.

Who are we, truly?
I saw oblivion
in your eyes, rotting
flesh I did not want
to become.

So I let go.

Powerful creature
forsaken by strength,
fell from the golden
cathedrals divine,
torn apart from inside
by armored claws—
sharp as lies spilled
from the splitting beak.

Blood and bones
seep into ashen earth,
that whose trembling lungs
consume divinity
until bursting forth
an impossible vitality,
twisting its way through
the rotting corpses.

Tear flesh from the carcass.

Let the heart become the lion,
the wings become the eagle,
the soul become the flame.
To take chase, take flight,
take life.

Split through the sky,
reign decay like a storm
down to the core—
and shatter the skin
until nothing of old
is left behind.