The darkness is an old friend and familiar lover.
Evil slips me on like a knife’s sheath,
and the demons of dead things walk in my wake.
They whisper love as evil,
and cut to drink from feeding veins
like children with straws bent and circled
back on themselves, watching
the dizzy, helpless liquid
unable to resist the pull
of its destiny.
The darkness smiles at me,
releasing a hint of lavender to
bring me through the
noisome rot of old, toppled stones
and trees that have seen too many
secret trysts of betrayal.
It is all one to me,
a final wanton plunge into
forbidden pleasures of torture eternal,
and I am forbidden to ever return.
BlackQuill 