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Empty Pages.You are the perfect story,
A plot unfurling from your touch,
And poetry in your eyes.
You speak with golden glory,
Into sentences of hate,
And promises of lies.
You are the book
I never had the words to write.
Kiss Me, Melancholy.I live for sin,
And vie for lies.
My heart is gone,
My kingdom fell.
There stands a cross on ivory skin,
Between two crystal eyes.
Empty echoes of demons moan,
But sewn up lips can never tell.
I bleed with tears,
And laugh from pain.
I sold my soul,
To buy your heart.
There lies a coffin filled with years,
With corpses drowning in the rain.
So here's our drama, assume your role,
And await the show to start.
I once fell for sane man's folly,
And scorned your ivory hips.
My empty soul filled with malice,
On that frozen day you fell.
So kiss me, Melancholy,
Drain the life from my lips.
Abduct me from this golden palace,
And lie with me in Hell.
Skeletal System.My vessel
as vacant as
a gaping grave
because I put everything
into loving you
I am a
The Sandmen. December air creeps in through the crack in the window. Moonbeams flow into the room, casting blue light on the walls. I back further into the shadows and watch him as he sleeps. I was supposed to kill him months ago, but I couldn’t. And so I lied. I lied to the Order and told them he was dead, offering them the soul of some decrepit peasant as substitute.
He stirs and whimpers, another nightmare. That always happens to the ones whose time is drawn.
I sweep my hand above his eyes to banish the horrific visions. “Sweet dreams,” I whisper into his ear.
You humans, you mortals, you all have so many opinions of us, so many variations. Many of you believe us to be one little man, entering homes and banishing darkness from children’s slumber. Others imagine us to be a monster, stealing dreams and feeding on fear. Neither theory is entirely correct, nor entirely wrong.
There is not just one Sandman,
A Funeral Parlor Story.Ye shall gather
And all shall mourn,
Read the simple invitation
Sent to everyone in town.
“A funeral for whom?”
They all wanted to know.
But even the mortician had no clue.
“No one has died,” said he,
“No bodies this week.”
October 15, was the given date
For the whole town to meet.
And on that day they all did gather,
Despite the full confusion,
For they desired to learn
The mysterious note’s conclusion.
When they arrived
An ebony casket,
Lined in violet velvet,
Opened wide without a body
Crowned the pale, elegant room.
“What is this?” They ask each to the other.
“Who died?” A child says to her mother.
No one knew
Just what this all was for,
Yet they sat in rows
Overflowing the door.
“Welcome here, my guests.”
A pleasant voice called.
And everyone stared in wonder
At the man upon the stage.
Virgil St. Claire,
The town recluse
Was all dressed up in a designer suit.
“Why are you all here?” He desire
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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