Asmodel

He was looking at her. That was it. No emotion in the gaze, mere observation.
The bile rose thick in the back of her throat following the cold sensation creeping up her spine, setting fire to the nerves in its wake. It spread slowly, seeping into her bones. She kept herself tightly wound, breathing deep slow breaths subtly to subdue the rage. This had happened before, suppression was an automatic symptom now. And it might have worked like the cherry it was, if he had stopped staring.

It was the sharp trembling of her feet along the outer edges. Like someone who had pushed themselves to far during a workout or in marathon runs. At least that's how it had always been in the beginning when they had been trying to induce the storm that erupted from within, those furious frenzies where the devil hisownself took a sick day to avoid.
She remembered gasping.

Lunging across the table she had time to analyze several possibilities of action he might take. He was slight, so physically no match for her unless he could fully pin her in a vulnerable position and then use the full strength of his upper body as well as every ounce of weight on his skeleton. The guards coming in the door were more of a challenge, being specifically bulked up to be dogs of war. Well bred and well trained. Arching herself mid-leap her right hand shot down to his weapon, her left catching his shoulder and using it as a gymnast might use a bar to turn.

Shoving him into the table and landing herself in a crouch behind him in the fractions of a second it had taken the two guards to enter, and in another she had angled his frame against her to the guards. They could not see her from beneath and behind the furniture and body, yet she could see their feet and shadows. Calculating their moves and the time she had left, she slid the gun beneath his right ear. And pulled the trigger.

Cowering from the shot, even though he had turned to avoid the blowout thus saving him his hearing, he had provided the opportunity to be used as a weapon. And she took it. Hurling him at the first guard and taking out the second as they collided. Landing to his right she fired on the first guard while yanking him up and across her body.
"Time for you to be useful again, Asmodel."

The terror ripping her from what ever subconscious state she had been was almost as painful as the blinding lance radiating from her side. Sweat broke out and she huddled fetal to ease the shock waves into something manageable until her body responded appropriately. Sighing hesitantly she counted the breaks. Whatever had happened, her ribs and shoulders had taken the brunt of the beating. Numerous rib fractures and breaks, as well as a shoulder out and collarbone floating. Hell, her whole right arm was out. Which was such a shame, she had always favored that hand for shooting and at heart she was still a gun-bunny greaser.

Pulling herself upward she took in her surroundings. That shame stopped dead in the tracks of a frozen heart. He was here in this place with her.

What Dreams May Come

I am waiting for you. I see you just there. I want you so much it is killing me. But I would rather die this death than be without you. Do you see me the way that I see you? And are you so very far away that you do not come to me now? I will still be waiting when you get here. My breath is too great for my chest, costae straining to contain what atmosphere the pneumos can absorb as my heart swells. I’m burning, I’m breaking, I’m waiting for you.

I will wait forever.

In waking I can still feel the warm press of your body crushing down upon mine. In the crowded room where we osculate there is only the muted thunder, cacophony in miniscule. All of my focus on you, in you. I incense you; inhale you – you are etched upon my mind more intense than my best recollections; a supernova sunset. In waking I breathe and scent you in the air, my frantic frenetic searching otiosely. I can taste you still upon my labium, strong and supple the press of your superioris upon mine.

I am still perambulating those amplitudes on your flesh when corporeality crowds in, overbearing and callous. Consciousness is the bitch thieving you away. The ache of it is breaking my heart, even in this moment centuries pass and I die in muted silence – how bitter sweet the pain. But silently in the early mornings I am stealing myself back to you, because it is there you are waiting for me. I want to trace my life upon your syncytium, burn it to ash and blow it away on a bitter sea wind before giving you mine.

It’s your eyes, burnished and blackened honey – soul consuming. We do not need to articulate. You do not need to move as I am already crashing into you the instant those umber orbs find mine supernova of hypergiants. Everything laid open and bare, there is no fear – only the need to touch, those epochs when not even flesh has caressed and all is only body heat and nearness Einstein makes theories on in thinking rooms far away from here and now…

My moon will rise and set within you and that is all that I will ever need.

I’m waiting for you.

All Of It's Futile You Know

She would prepare everything. Or rather she had, at least mostly. Gathering the collective tools, random items more befitting a [medical examiner] [butcher] [mortician]; the stainless steel shimmered softly – with that soft wire scrub sheen so many medical trays cloned. Laying out the tarpaulin, and cocking her head softly to the side she found beauty in it. Clenching her jaw and blinking furiously to blot out the seas which burned with acid fire in her eyes, that’s the problem, she whispered; more to herself than to the man.

Or was he a boy?

She hadn’t decided.

She always found the beauty in everything. Even in her own wretched pain, the festering rot coiling within her soul – that lancing burn that sometimes blocked out EVERYTHING, even the ability to breathe… Sighing, like the earth after genocidal tidal waves vain efforts at a message no one wants to hear, she smoothed the last of the semi-translucent petrol. Head bent, her gaze was lost - seeing beyond the staccato tile floor - futile endeavors to salvage memories she felt she needed.

What she really needed was hope - but that was far beyond her now.

She turned her gaze back to the center of the room, the frigid cadaver table - stark and brutal even as it lacked quick edges or gothic décor. To the organism breathing, those shallow inhalations only the comatose or deeply drugged do. The conflagration smoldered her extremities, they twitched as though acid had pooled at the tips; aching itch – the need to touch.

No thoughts had formed or time had passed it seemed, INSTANTLY she was beside him; bent and leaning slightly over him and watching, the way hazmat crews observed CHERNOBYL or HIROSHIMA – with that morbid enthrallment engrossing every iota of their being. Lighting gently upon his clavicle, her forefinger hummed with the soft heat his body gave, tracing over the ridge the ice eased softly from that INTREPID digit. Oxygen optional, her breath froze as slowly she traced along the length of brachiating bone and curling, the way cars curve around long highways doubling back along themselves, up and along the throat, climbing the soft hill of the sternomastoid in soft ascension of the mandible and tracing downward. Ceding upon his lips, orbs lidded she breathed, crawling along the stillness that had consumed her. Pulling away so that her distals grazed his face, she stood.

He hadn’t moved, and in many respects appeared DEAD. But he was alive; she NEEDED him to be alive. Shoving the needle into the carotid, the thrum of his heart’s song traveling in gentle permeation through the metal and plastic of the hypodermic, sweeping upwards into the chilling phalanges – she paused. Pressing in bitter vehemence with prehensile, the serum vacated its holding cell; finding a new journey within that sanguine causeway.

Hoisting the weighted surgeon’s apron over her head, she admired the thick slickness of it; the matte black almost absorbing light, as though it were destined for this and was ready nigh eager to soak the claret sprays into itself. Turning to behold him, the char pigmented vinyl gloves slid across the steel tray, ushering a sadistic whisper into the silence this place had claimed. The fluttering of his lids told her he was waking, as did the change in his respiration. Sharp and swift, the inhalation devouring as much atmosphere as possible; awareness surged culminating in the rapid flick to open those soulful windows. Pulling those void gauntlets over her writhing digits, he saw her and remembrance and recognition blazed like stars in those windows. Grasping the hacksaw she sighed and looked at him directly, gazes locking.

You’re beautiful.

But that just isn’t enough.

Where Wolves Wander…

Thick ribbons swirl noxious and delirium resounding the heartfelt need. Entwining and burning with the heat of want, fine flowers blooming in open air where death itself finds fear. Mysteries purged, like vomit of the bulimics –But mama I just wanna be pretty– cruel the smile that decorates her lips, that sick upward twist leaving you bereft of hope and warmth

Satan prefers it chilly

In the noontime hours pass in seconds and the depth of things are thicker than you can stand, wading through concrete proves vast entertainment in moments where eternity spins wildly. Every detail a glaring neon sign to those with a physical aversion to all light – the glower noxious in a way bees or penicillin is to fools. Rush rush to those needles, sweetly awe striking in their twisted colors warning death and toxins. Delicate the supple flesh porcelain hued reaching languorously towards the thorn, some sleeping beauty out of context in a world where the prince has long since died – it would seem the joke is on her. And the laughter is so loud it’s quiet, like the rush of waves along the shore; maybe the ocean wants out?

Roll back, the eyes of a dead man, you mimic in some ironic twist – proof of life and also mockery of his current state; not your fault, you are not the man nor god who took what little life he had, in a said twist of fate he was wasting it anyway…

The birds hum loudly if you listen a moment, the sharp smack of their wings slicing the air like emo’s with razor blades who have no life left to give and no idea of what real pain might be. You watch them wondering if maybe they have the real idea nailed, get out quick before there is anything worth living for; the cold slap of your own death hits you. It’s coming and you can feel it in every breath you take, beat of your heart – but then it might not be so noticeable if death weren’t watching you from the doorway, waiting in that way of Cheshire cats.

If only he would smile

Maybe those skittering trembles crossing your flesh would cease, unlikely given his profession. Hell even the coldest heart finds warmth in something, no matter the iron casing and steel reserve; it is the ones who pretend not to notice who care the most, and you laugh and enjoy their company freely as they give it to you like those dancing with the wild wolves in forests – but if you took the moment to wholly understand what it is they are giving you, what all they have risked, maybe you would not be so careless with their hearts; for surely their soul is swiftly behind it.

Do not give me that look, souls are as easy to give as hearts; words of caution to those who so choose to release them, as many of these addle brained minions of soulless monetary fucking seek only satisfaction of the self ensure that the peril you are taking is worth the leap – even Geronimo could not take a redo in that leap.

Hearts heal Souls do not

Awakening in the forest in early dawn, the sky is that purple gray shade resplendent in newness, like the fawns of spring. Dew heavy on the grass reaching for the sun it feels crawling ever slow across the surface of the world –resembling the whispered passion of a lover as their breath and lips play delicately upon ripened flesh– reminiscent of shiny worlds, clear with a slate as new as any soul’s. Evaporation is sex only the elements understand, heat and desire tangible in ways humans yearn to be. Fuck romeo and juliet, I want to be water waiting for fire to ignite me; primal in a way only the gods understand, waiting as they do for their fifteen minutes of fame to be repeated–Mithras laughs in that silent joke only he and Dionysus share, while christians frown their disapproval.

I want to be silent in the ways vampires hear, that fleshy torrent wholly consuming and enveloping, that sweet divine scent and taste only those born of angel’s knowledge. Envy is an interest of its own when paired with indifference; a plaguing scoff of all they have been granted yet supreme curiosity would belie more than is apparent, and wearing Mona Lisa’s smile I sit silent, center of their attention entirely consumed and barren of their opinions of it.

Looking silently I peer over fields of ice and mountains built of thousands of millions of flakes as individual as a soul in the universe – I see those wookiee’s arguing with vulcans while smirking from the shadows in a veiled way so as not to attract attention – and that great whiteness blinds with all the fury of the cold burning hotter than black fire. You can see spanning those endless white fields the glass tower at the heart, rising like the babylonian tower; only instead of attempting to reach heaven it sits like a fat cat, satisfied in marring the skyline. In telescopes you can see the blood smeared a conglomerate range of brown-black-maroon where there was something trapped inside, and sick with the knowledge of ice approximating sharpness so severe it dulls razors you ponder what could have escaped from that hell -knowing full well the devil would scurry quicker than a bat out of hell given the sight of the thing- and in that mellow instance of insight what gives you pause is not what came out, but what could possibly have the force to imprison itself in such an abomination.

Quietly the warmth of life whispers upon your neck, caressing as a lover does in willing you to abandon that which frightens you. And grasping sweetly your face betwixt hands supple as lambskin and firm as steel you surrender – given the nature of the one holding yourself it may be a muzzle buried in your throat in the moment

You could always offer your soul in absolute submission.

I Miss The Moon

She ran hard and fast. Ran on through the grasses, thundering between trees and bursting through bushes in a fury of twigs and leaves. Her wolfskin was hard upon her and that itself made her heart ache, pained and weary with recent events. Foolish she had been, and yet was there ever a time when she was anything but a fool? The miles passed swiftly beneath her feet. Pounding through dead leaves, dank rich earth thick with the scent of vegetations decay; over rocks and pebbles crushing into brisk waters flowing with their angry torrents – grasping grabbing so eagerly for her. She wanted to let go and embrace its caress deep into its raging rocky depths, but the anger and pain burned high in her and she galloped on. Running into the night as though she could catch the moon, so close and still so far; nearly hiding in its new skin. She wanted to hate them, those silly things with their exemplar ideals; such farces and still so embraced. Naive sheep with their stories of how the hero defeats the boogieman, the big bad nasty thing.

They had come with their silver, ignorant and full of fear. Immunity was hers through chance and accident; and what a charade to think it might kill her, that maybe if she just let enough sink down into her it would work its toxic will and bind her to death. She howled the anguish. She envied them with their ignorance to believe that everything was better when you hunted down the monster; how can that be when you are the monster? And she ran ran until everything was burned away by the sheer need and will to run; ran until there was no more fear or rage or pain. She ran until forever passed beneath her feet.

A Girl Can Dream

I’m choking down those ashes again. Maybe I wouldn’t be so eager to shovel mounds into my serrated gob if only I could remember the taste of something else. I know I am missing something and it’s so close I can feel the weight of it crushing down upon me. I cram another handful and suck it down.

If you could crawl inside the windows, past the blue glass and peer down further into the ebon depths hidden, fold of a world. Press yourself against those frightening crags and move further down. Coming out of the darkness the light would blind and illuminate with such coldness that frigid still and smothered hangs the air. Wander down any path and the evidence of decay is heavy and thick. Remnants of a long forgotten glory smite the shite stained surface. This place has been dying for so long it doesn’t remember what life was. Hope is the white horse dying in the open court, eight shades of diseased emerald. The blood, however, is bright. Death imminent vivid in a washed out existence.

You could storm the creature without so much as a flinch. The eyes are dull and sticky, flecked with black dirt. Mayhaps death has already come and gone, but the rattling breath and consistent gush of blood communicate what is left of life in this being. Maybe it doesn’t know how to become dead, thus imprisoned in an endless state of dying. That could be one of your childish notions, easily waved away by the harsh stamp of adulthood, if only the horror of it was not so palpable. And as it consumes you, the realization that the entire world has been in this state long enough to see old gods overthrown while new ones were erected hits you like the moon crashing into earth. The vomit is hot and sticky on the back of your hands before you comprehend what has happened.

Your breath ragged the arctic air harsh in the back of your throat and you keep sucking it down – waiting for your heart to cease its frantic pounding, your head to cease its dizzy spinning, your eyes to blink back into focus. As this happens you feel it, the dread sensation of foreign eyes intense upon you, crawling – prickly sticky, like roaches – your stomach entangled and stone, your eyes follow the invisible path back to the voyeur. The white horse is watching you with those lifeless fish eyes and the echo startles you into actuality before your body has time to tell your mind that you’ve finished screaming. The world is blurring past you before you comprehend you are running, you gulp harder at the air willing your lungs to fill to bursting so you can run. Run run RUN RUN RUN RUN. The word is every breath, thought, sensation of movement, gush of blood from your heart; your body is screaming it so loud you’ve lost the feeling of movement and all you see is a world smearing past you faster and faster.

The pain is neon red, lancing through your arms and head. Panting rigid and callous, you are coughing before you notice you’re crying so hard you can’t breathe. You gulp down the air between sobs; sweet, cool and laden with soft hints of life collapsing to the ground you revel in the texture of the grass – the supple warmth and tangy scent as your weight crushes it. You stumble home; grateful for the mild chill the breeze conjures, eliciting goose bumps upon your flesh. Climbing the steps you’ve almost forgotten what you just witnessed, as you shut the door that eerie dread fills you; at the time it was so insignificant you had overlooked it, but now it is staring you down. That place held no sound; even the rattle of Hope was silent, only noticed in the series of bubbles in the bloody froth.

Your stomach churns but you try to disregard as you twist the knob and water rages downward sending a cloud of steam into your face, the adjustment and stripping are done in a haze. One foot follows the other into the glorious cascade that’s easing a chill out of your soul you didn’t conceive being there, and tragedy strikes as you’ve closed the glass door and managed to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wouldn’t be so bad, if the blood staining your life toned flesh wasn’t a horribly perfect color match for the blood of the dying equine fit to match the dying world you abandoned for dead. The vomit sprays the doors and walls, retching between sobs you fight to forget, to leave the dead world behind, like some twisted childhood nightmare re-envisioned for one last haunt. Still hunched over dry heaving long after the saccharine hot water swept away the remnants of vomit and blood, you cling to the warmth of the liquid careening down your spine.

The light of midday brightens the room and you breathe deep, the air thick and heavy with early afternoon; and as your foot graces the floor you feel the wooden fiber of it, rich and earthen beneath you as your body moves from the bed to the window. As beautiful as this new world seems, the wind even seems to carry a soft lilting note – sorrow pressing hard on your mind and a memory you wish to forget. Shuffling back to bed you surrender once more to the glorious amnesia Hypnos grants; mayhap days pass and in vein the sense, as the clock betrays mere minutes. Peering up at the ceiling you fight between forgetting and scheming, torn betwixt the sense of guarding one you care for or of self preservation.

Waking to a new day, the weight upon your heart has somehow lessened, and the guilt racks you into a harsh sob; preparing for the task at hand while blinded by responsibility is swiftly done. Calming breath to steady yourself at the window overlooking that bright world you can see with such voracity, a vein attempt to preserve the sense of innocence. A sensation familiar crawls upon your skin and you look down to the sidewalk beyond and into the eyes of dull blue glass and the tears well softly in the corner, betraying you and your decision. You cannot save her, you wouldn’t know how - but if you remain friends the fact of this would drive you mad; abandon is written on your face as plainly as E PLURIBUS UNUM on the currency, full of sorrow your frown twists into that smile all the gods of pain and loss bear. As you bring up your gaze to meet her face, her piercing stare, your eyes convey “I cannot save you and I cannot stay” and this alone is awful, but the pain is sharpened by her soft smile and the ease of her body language as hers convey “I know. And I forgive you.”

Turning your back you slide to the floor and let the world fade away into the blurring tears and the wracking sobs.

I might notice I was crying if I could feel it and if I was accustomed to seeing where I went. I lived in your world once. I know this, but I cannot remember. Sometimes I think about it, but all reminiscence brings is pain. I feel the chill coming and sight relief.

Might not be death, but a girl can dream…

You Had Your Night In Shining Armor, I Had My Monster Under The Bed

What is it about the monsters that makes me [us??] cry for them. When I see a movie I do not plaudit for the dragon slayer, but the dragon. It is not the hero I want to see at the end – covered in blood and gore from a job well done – but the werewolf. It is not the slayer I hold my breath for, it’s Dracula.

I was nine when I had my first crush. He was tall, dark and handsome. He was Dracula in the ’92 version of Bram Stoker’s. Seeing him left me breathless and at the end my heart truly ached at his peril. I connected more with the monster than any other character.

Still evident today in which characters I love from even the most mundane of shows. House and Cartman –who you only love because you hate– I love for very different reasons. I want to BE them. In ancient times I would kill them and consume their flesh to invoke their attributes within myself. They’re an addiction—strange, bizarre and fascinating. Like the two-headed cow you can’t help but stare at. Only, where the masses generally find themselves a little sickened and/or horrified, I can only proclaim desire and interest.

I would merrily frolic into the night of Stephen King’s werewolves and gladly plunge into the maw of the maddened creature if only for that brief encounter. Most would urinate in fear, with confusion I believe my reaction to be far different.

LUST

The breath that the masses hold in fear for being found, I find myself bursting with anticipation. Secretly counting the seconds until the cold claws tightly grasp my arms and shoulders before plunging into ferocity. The toxic giddy-up causing your heart to burst full of adrenaline at the need-to-flee fills mine with wanton desire.

Perhaps this has filtered thoroughly into every fiber of my being; because I find myself carrying a great disdain for the masses. Not all of the normals, just a majority. Secretly I’m combing through them to find the dark star shining within.

I rage harshly and fiercely and love just as passionately. I want that in return. The monsters have it. We are kin and I am wanting to be ravaged. I want to combust beneath you. “Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.”

The trick to monsters is you have to be as eager to consume them as they are to consume you.

I am ready.

And I am hungry.

Come out, come out, wherever you are…

clapping; bravo, hallelujah, hosanna; acclaim, accolade, citation, commendation, compliment, encomium, eulogy, homage, paean, panegyric, salutation, tribute

acclamation, cheering, cheers, ovation, plaudit(s), rave(s)

Some Secret Sin Crept Upon My Lips And Unwittingly I Uttered The Utterly Reprehensible…

I raged silent against a violent world. All of it sticky remorse and translucent pain. So unsure and yet secure and well aware. My heart picks up a notch. The slightly unnoticeable flush betraying the giddy up of a rhythmic enthused muscle. A light in the eyes evinces and undermines the rest. Marbled body- cold, unyielding steel mimicry. Vampiric ancient a statued self but somewhere within blood rushes. Hot pooled seduction rushing through cable systems working a little too efficiently.

You only smile at them. I’m screaming – quiet, quiet, shh – and the silence of it fills volumes. A polite grimace is all I’m bequeathed but I snatch. Child of Ethiopia with a steak. The slightest hint of recognition and nuclear reaction causes this cold star to burn hot. Chameleon black to vivid red.

Burn with a yearning futile as a child building a tower to heaven. Tears like acid carve hot trails along marble — canyons in wake. I’m only breathing to see if you notice. Curious. Hurt. Wanting. Hating, loathing, impeaching every notion. I see you look at them, watch them, converse with them, touch them, smell them. Green eyes veiled, still as prey. Angst climbs tendons like electric charging batteries. Frozen in the instant–beg for an ending far away as Armageddon. I’m lost in my own iron tranquility and my silver tongue slit my throat long ago. Soft sighs mock the cries I make that cannot escape my python throat.

Velvet lashes flick liquid diamonds swiftly from traitorous doorways. Hard to breath in the vice grip of self control but I’ve learned naught else. I’m bursting expanding rushing racing to fill all directions. Thundering madness out and away, anywhere but here. I can’t bear to move –to leave–

Silent fingers grip like springs wound tight, steel twisted–clenching vicious. Clutch it, huddle closer. Pain swirls and encircles and strangles that bastard that keeps beating after long requited silence.

How do you fix what you can’t change. I regret not being what you want. I regret not being what you need. I regret being here. I regret – being. And I huddle in awe and fear, pain is sweet lust and I let it linger while your near. You’re palpable as I ache starvation.

I stumble unable to convey the idea so simple its infinitely complex. Light candles to your memory even as I make plans to see you on the marrow. Plans you’ll never know about because you’ll never notice me beyond the passing glance. A gift I’ll cherish even as you regret descending your gaze upon me. Odd scents promulgate the burning flesh as I caress the flame lost in imagery vivid with you. Red poppy among the sea of clover. I’m [grasping, grabbing, rushing] for the safety while eagerly falling into your desire.

A rush to open that red door only to find the light within marks the emptiness of time and space without some semblance of you. Violent angry rush boldly streaks black upon it. Bury the desire– a betrayal of myself.

I will never have you because I can never be what you desire and I’ve nothing left. How stranglely hollow filled with your emptiness. Awe struck and breathless.

Wishing an eternity of this.

I Was Happy To Be Hollow, Yet You Wanted To Fill The Void, And Now I’m Bursting With Death

Some sympathetic ear taunted me with vicious dreams of capricious pagans. Wholesale slaughter at private prices, and someday I’ll be just another whore. Maybe then you’d want me. And I smile; feigning delight, because what you want is a star and unfortunately all I can be is a phoenix. How quickly all the color in your world has faded. Scantily clad in red I try to hide, ruby amongst ashes. My tears tread black along pale faces, a porcelain lie.

And you sit silently amongst flames, frigid by the open window that smothers the fire. Inhalation of ice is lancing red and I can’t help but breathe you in. Thick in my lungs I want to keep you here. But destined to leave; you smile and reassure me that you’re my shadow. By my side always. Moon brilliant, I’ve lost myself – but who was I to begin with, not anyone I cared to know.

Slowly the blood crimson of the bismuth oxychloride smears delicately along the labium inferius. A decadent doorway into the abyss. Still I stare with vacant, oculus hollow.

Sometimes I think my heart would shatter to be found. I’ve lost it and see no need to find it. A white queen within an endless realm of snow and bitter cold. Alone and unyielding; Caesar had friends – it’s all to easy to see where it got him. Harsh and bitter, I am the north seas. Chill with the omen of death. But the crueler the mistress, the greater the bounty. Perhaps there is some treasure at the end of this bleak gray rainbow….

Some Silent Cat Whispered Sweet Nothings In My Ear Then Abandoned Me At The Altar

Some intrepid sin forgotten by a long abandoned god crept upon me whilst unawake I lie. Cushioned in clover and lost in blissful dreams of chaos. Suffocating blankets of NAG CHAMPA curled around, hugging the warmth by a still beating heart locked within.

and in the shadows, cloaked in observance death still solid perched the audacious shadow. gingerly tiptoed dainty delicate cat stealth, creeping e'er closer.

gentle as the morning dew

curled atop the muscled rhythm

one beat, two beat, a tango within the veins. and nine lives of fur void black and satin soft stooped to whisper in my ear.

in vein i lie there still