Mirror, mirror

On the wall,

Who is the scariest,

Of them all?

Who will face the furthest fall?

Happy Birthday Addams Family!

I wanted to be Morticia all of my teenage years.

I did pretty well in terms of appearance.

Sadly, a life of indulgent gothic delight eluded me.

Still, happy, happy days watching this series.

A Change for the Better

Destiny

Time is the sadistic master.

Laughing he erodes all will power

Until Indecision reigns, the farcical hero.

Thoughts collect like raindrops

Drowning defenceless Hope.

The master slows his pace as seconds sweat past,

Writhing with infinite glee.

Now outlandish Fear stifles Reason,

drowning she lies face down in the water.

He regards his victim, and smiles.

Hours pass, prolonging his patient torture

Until only Self remains, all emotions dissolved.

Time relents, disappointed,

For even he must defer as Destiny sheds her cloak, waiting....

Doubt

I trow I will forever be

Caught up in this conspiracy,

Between the phantom and the ghost

For it is I that plays the host

I fear fear,

And succour pain

That dances in and shouts 'insane!'

So weeping I admit him in,

And then the circle starts again.

Inheritance

I would not visit this dread place again, but duty drives the carriage in which I quake. Every jarring bend threatens to destroy the fragile calm I strive to portray to these grim, rebuking relatives who surround me; resenting my every breath.

I squirm in this padded discomfort, my clammy white gloves covering even paler skin.

Is it always this way with the passing of one's distant kin?

But I cannot think, the horses shoddy stride distracts me, pounding nails of sweat into my brow.

Soon, too soon, the driver slows and my stomach falls through the soles of my feet.

Gods, can we have arrives so soon?

The creaking door and the shifting of disapproval confirms my fear.

More skittish than the foaming steeds that drove me here I follow, forcing my face towards the monstrous pile before me.

Blackdove Hall.

How I hate this place.

Sixteen huge, blank, dead eyes stare sightlessly back at me from within blackened frames of rotting wood; shrinking me, mocking me.

Despite myself I still stumble up and over the damp, mottled teeth that lead me reluctantly through that gaping mouth, to be swallowed alive.

'Just let your will be straight and true' I pray.

'Leave them everything, they're your blood after all. I don't want your money, I just want to leave.'

But twisted corridors breed twisted minds, and none more twisted than the grimly mocking corpse that dominates this gathering.

This sorry mausoleum belongs to me.

Every sickening grain of dust, every coin, everything.

Choking, I try to flee, but it is too late.

The jealous knife gouges between my ribs, twisting fire into my heart.

Blows rain down upon my head, driving me to the ground, yet I watch my life's blood pass between my fingers with surprising calm. She moves so swiftly, my assassin; all I can see of her is the royal silk of her skirts as the stiletto pricks the last of my life from my breast, and I die.

But now I can see she who killed me; too well I know the green heart that coveted this place.

I see her daily, though her pitiless gaze passes right though me.

Oh, but I have patience.

And desire.

And power.

And I will have her.

When she sleeps.

When she dreams.

I will have her.

I am a black dove to steal her soul.

Sleep well, sister.

Swallow

The dust of a sigh blows motes in her mind
From a bygone age,
A final breath, drawn without pause
As the last sigh rang in her mind,
Carrying with it
The envy of creatures
Still alone in the dark.
Sightless they follow
But impotent they remain
Starving
They feed on the ghost of
Her last breath
As
It
Evaporates....

Breathe

I found this picture on a free clip art site whilst scouring the web for images that would compliment a series of poems and prose that I was getting together. Breathe. As it turned out, it didn't fit with anything I had already written. But I like this picture. I like the way it makes me feel. It's exciting. Breathe. My eyes are drawn endlessly from her outstretched finger tips to her carefully staged feet. They slide across her legs, flicking almost guiltily to her nipples as they almost graze the surface of the water. And then there's the water. It confuses my eye. Is she underwater or isn't she?  The more I look, the more I twist my head to work it out, the more inside out it becomes. It looks like the outside is on the inside. I'm looking across the surface in the middle of the frame, yet around the edges of my vision darkness bleeds into underwater, and back to her underwater body. Breathe. The fabric of her dress clings to her skin but her hair is perfect, not even the slightest tendril adrift. Does she even have a face? I believe she does but I can't picture it. It makes me feels ever so slightly anxious when I try. Maybe if she can just relax she will sink into the perfectly clear water and her face will exist. Maybe. Her body is so tense. Is she afraid? Or is she waiting for something? Is she taking her last breath? Breathe. Are her hands holding onto something I can't see? What else is down there with her? So many questions to answer.



And she would answer them,
If she could only breathe.
If she could only move.
If she could only be. 
If she could only find her way back
To the place where what seemed to be, was.
Always was.
But not here, not for her.
Drowning in a never ending moment.
An ocean away from life.
A heartbeat away from death.
All she can do is breathe.
Breathe.