Deep down, I'm just scared that I'll one day be old with a cigarette in my hand, and not a soul to light me up.
And glaring death into bitter night,
I left my heart on the stone altar,
a peace offering to shadowy figures
clothed in tears and linen,
that they may receive it
and be pleased.
I ran,
I flew down the mountain side,
wind in my ears and
blood on my hands,
hysterical laughter ringing in
the hollows of my skull.
At the foot of the mountain,
centered in the valley,
a well stood, stoney eyed
and heartless
(the well was me and I was the well)
waiting for the rushing noise
to hush and
the shadow gods to be quieted
by the pumping of a deadened heart.
My red tinged eyes
gazed forward, downward,
into the ever sloping well,
and all was quiet.
The blood dripped scarlet pearls
from my hollowed chest,
and after an eternity the splash echoed
from the walls of the cold well.
The sound reverberated
through air cold as ice,
anchoring me in its grip,
soft as a kiss.
I fell.
I let the echo pull me
into a well's unbroken water,
eyelids forced open over empty sockets,
wind burping into my cheeks,
forcing me into an unforgiving smile.