Somebody aims a crossbow in your face but you do not flinch now that death's secrets has revealed itself to you.

Dead of night is a hangman creaking from a ceiling, stealing words.

His swaying motion distracting flow into stagnation.

Blizzard at the window capturing a white wizard of song.

Nothing can shut him up lately.
He mocks you through glass.
You feel with your fist,
lick the jagged crimson from every knuckle.


Slow to die,

this night freeze
stake in the bones
aching to flame
Nile flow into Red.

The ghostly arrival
speaks your name
crisp as the friend
you thought left you,

  so cold the entire country of hell
blindly shivered on your floor.

When you wake up:
Darkness is a rope around
your neck telling you
it ******* hates you
as it scars your breath
with memory.