Face Me

November 21, 2009

In the mornings where the moon fails shining, or on your own terms. I will not easily be erased or eliminated, temporarily circumvented at best. I am a creeping pestilence that will taint and turn your blood sour as winged maggots come to consume you. I am a decaying corps dreaming of a way out, leaning on stilts and riding unicycles through your sleeping years. Your rotting memories are transmorphing into cheerily over saturated undertones that vaguely cover the gloom that slipped under your regretted yesterdays. I am, have become, a wind blown rickety picket sign stabbing deeply into the icy earth of your defaced self centered dementia. I am the undead brain spasm that will convulse you into a convoluted lack of delusion. You will fuck me in silent nightmares and awake screaming and impregnated by the deformity of my triumphant will. This is not a reflected metaphor, I mean all of this literally. Someday somewhere you will wake up and I will be sitting serenely on the edge of your bed. My mouth will slowly turn cheek-ward and my smile will become your horror as you erupt inwardly by the pain of your own ignorance. This is not a test or a day dream, the something coming for you is so far beyond your conception that your fathom will fail and die a shrieking death of impunity. I am your death bed, and for you I lie waiting.

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