I've sat dining with the obscure figure of myself
one too many times.
We sit idly in the absence of sound as the
food grows cold
and my tongue goes numb.
The poison in my cup grows stronger and
my need for it makes my parched throat itch.
I mustn't take from the Devil's dinner table and
yet it is hard to abstain and give myself to
momentary pleasure.
It is a supper that has gone for far too long.
The food has belatedly gone cold and decomposed.
The beautiful illusion of the assortment of red fruits
and meat have rot over the passage of time.
The veil has been lifted and allowed me to see.
It's disgustingly beautiful in its reminder of mortality;
of beauty.

The whole in my chest grows bigger, deeper
as I stare past the deadly offering and in to
my urging shadow.
The flickers of the candles behind me dance
on the wall behind her.
A single, crimson pomegranate has been placed
on the immaculate plate in front of me.
He's arrived.
The host to greet the guest of honor.
Emerging from within the shadows the light cannot
reach.
Him, with a silk ebony robe devoid of all reflection
cascading down his figure
and his waiting for me to take a bite out
of his deadly feast.

He's patient, he's cunning in his silence;
He knows in time that I'll give in to the
hole been caved in to my heart.
The fractured darkness of me beacons Him closer
speaking tenderly as if to not startle our shared reverie
and he comes,
slowly,
taking his time to glance through the craft and art of
his fine dining.
The cold he's brought permeates the room and the
fire flickers furiously about to give way for the
obscurity of his presence.
The reflections of our shadows dance with frenzy on
the wall and I am lost within this world and the other.

A multitude of clocks scream around us.
Stretching his bony hand to me, calmly,
never rushing.
I stare confused and in the basin of his hand
there is a skull
from which protrudes a single red poppy.
Candles begin to burn out behind me.
One by one I can feel the absence of their heat
extinguish,
Just as the hand of the symphony of clocks near
the witching hour.
He remains poised over me, hindering my view of
the shadow of myself at the end of the table.
There are faint murmur underneath the hood of
the robe,
muted by the ticking from the walls.
He's tolerance promises redemption from the
torment of being forsaken.

And the clocks chime,
for a moment everything is a cacophony of echoes.

Their clamor halts.
The hands no longer mark.
Time has come to a stop.

A single candle illuminates the room.
The shadow has merged inside the darkness.
It is lost, yet I know its there.
He brings himself to my level, placing expectantly
the skull and petal beside my plate.
We glance at one another.
After an immeasurable bout of time
I stand from my seat, get the last remaining
candle and sit back down close to him.

He puts his hand around mine
and I gently blow the candle out.