It's always two minutes to midnight,
and we're always in the Garden of Gethsemane.  
I don't remember when
moonlight started to burn like this, but
it seems like this is all there is, maybe all
there ever was, ever will be.
The brain has never felt more like
spoiling meat, nor the excoriated soul itself
more reassuringly transient,
as we dance these slow, sad waltzes
with mute, irradiated ghosts
beneath the branches of the doveless olive trees.
The night is sharp with splinters and iodine
and other traumas.  Muffled voices, raised
in song: listen! they are singing inside
the fallout shelters.   Ash drifts like
apple blossom.  Wolf skeletons relearn the
ability to howl.  Everything we fear
is inevitable.  Much of it has
already happened.  And maybe tomorrow
won't bring betrayal, crucifixion or torture, just
something else,
something like agony,
I guess.

https://youtu.be/ozARuJ92vkQ

There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.
I am an aberration, as you know.
I never promised you a villanelle.

You cannot trap the ocean in a shell.
You feed the roses blood to make them grow.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.

It does get bumpy on this carousel.
The ride is all extremes of high and low.
I never promised you a villanelle.

I was the aberration, you could tell.
I ******* my neuroses in a bow.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.

I think it's safe to say you know me well
in all my many masks, but even so,
I never promised you a villanelle.

Let me pin my ragged heart to your lapel.
If it's truly what you need, I'll let you go.
There is no cure, no fix, no magic spell.
I never promised you a villanelle.

My heart doesn't crumble when they finally go,
When they take their prodding fingers out of my soul,
Because they were in already-made holes,  
Whose depths, long ago, have come to plateau;
So curious fingertips, aren't missed  
When they finally stop trying to scratch an itch-
Or cease their search for a scab to pick, a wound to lick;
I'm used to it, the pain that sits atop these heavy eyelids...  

And with this weight comes benefits,

I never have to show,
The world will never know:
That deep inside, I'm small and vulnerable
Because tears no longer grow when they only come to go.  

-SLuR

I want to feel our lips fit the way a puzzle shifts from a blurry image to something perfect 'cause when nightmares aren't clinging tightly to my lashes it's your smile that flashes brightly against these worn screens, softly hushing my tossing, turning screams; lifting me to clouds of peace where I'd strangle stars to fulfill my **** dreams to feel your arms around me and have your hands travel my body, like a nomad looking for a habitat to rest at finding my breast's beat comforting enough to fall asleep. The way your breath would sing lullabies to me, untwisting the fright that tightens the muscles of my shelled mind. I'll unlock the door and let you inside if you promise not to rearrange the furniture behind my blind eyes. I'm accustomed to counting tiles, so bare for me the ones that live hidden by your lip's smile and I'll bury the number inside of my skull and won't ever find the courage to let that number go.

-SLuR

He stood over shambling souls, his skin falling from his flesh
I could feel the daunting grip of death exude from his breath.
Steadily he held his gaze, carrying countless years of waste;
All the life he had had to taste lay at his feet, disgraced.
I could feel a shiver snake, sneakily down my fragile spine,
And my bones became flimsy as they slowly jellified.
In the presence of the lord of flies, maggots penetrate your mind.
Eating membrane and shades of grey, ******* your sanity behind.
Memories turn into feces rotting in your hollow head;
For even death needs a ruler, and rule the dead he did.

He flashed a wormy grin and bled from his mouth,
Joyfully announcing that I’ve stepped into my grave,
Woefully denouncing me as his eternal slave,  
His words squirmed through decaying brain;
Though wounded, my bravery was not slain
For beside him grew roses on a porcelain face.
If he controlled the dead, she must own their hearts and souls
A glance into her eyes caused a fluttering amongst my own,
I could almost feel them leave as ghosts to her haunting beauty.
Foreign myths place names to such a woman; Macaria, Persephone
Mistress of blessedness, cursed to Death's grip; his unwilling queen.

I held my sword and braced, my heart raced before my feet
Ignoring the fear that demanded I heed, to smite the Draugr King.

-SLuR