He had his heart attack the page, in its native tongue; a language he alone understood, but to utter it was a gift beyond his wordless grasp

Each stroke bore more emptiness than meaning; enticing loops and inviting spaces, where the devil lies, where the details breathe and suffocate

The same patterns, the same lines, fed to him by familiar foes; now the sermons languish from a man down, as he barrels deeper into obscurity

He can’t remember why the ink flows or why his trembling hand writes upon the wall; only the sillage of failure bethinks him of his worthless, wandering words

He knows he floats with the agent of his demise, on growing waves of discontent; for to fall upon his pen would be too perfect an ending

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Absent desire, but alacritous disdain, the vestiges of his mortality drift away; away with his memories, as dandelion passengers in the fading light of day

Sinister sickles punctuate the path as undeserved smiles shed in their fall from grace; the seashell razors left behind as reminders where not to tread

Happiness hewn begets a visage of cold, cracked stone; unnatural edges, yet an attrition of angles, accentuate the homely crag that teeters atop the crumbling mountain

Penance is no longer a means to maintain control, as madness molts like withering leaves within the pluviose violence of a forgotten forest

In the distance, the thunderclaps for the windsong, while a soul cowers in the shadows of the blood-crusted, rust-dusted walls of ineptitude and solitude

Empty is the hand that chokes the empty heart; a husk, a placeholder for life, this human simulacrum awaits the corporeal waste of time to catch up to his own

art: (untitled) by Zdzisław Beksiński

Of wrist and stripe by razor swipe
or tracks for miles as death beguiles

Of neck and burn by slipknot yearn
or choking pill to hasten kill

Of pan and grey by leaden spray
or running leap to six foot deep

Of funeral pyre by fuel and fire
or hemlock glaze by goblet raise

Of truth and will by madness fill
and wilted rose from question pose

Of blessed peace in sorrow’s cease
and fateful end by destined rend

art: untitled 41 by Peterio