Chronicles of the Unliving
There is a strange beauty in clocks ticking—
Albeit in a manner that does not sing but croaks in morbid inevitability, Dismal, like the scratching of rats in the wall,
I do not live my days as much as I bleed through them, drop by drop, moving from moment to moment,
With each moment not distinguishable from the last,
Save for the shifting shapes of dust on the window,
I wake, yes, but it is not so much waking, but a reanimation, the twitching of a corpse hand in a grave,
The teacup shakes always at the same angle on the saucer,
The floorboards creak in the same exasperated exhalation, as if they also resent carrying the shape and hollowness of my passing again,
There is comfort, absurd and obscene, to this strange eternal circling—like a moth dazzled complete the flame,
Unknowingly and not caring that he is already a half-burnt husk,
Routine is not salvation but sedative, beguiling, and I swallow it in slowly sipping, for in the sedation,
The screaming void holding outside of this pattern cannot touch me.
Not yet.
#CHRONICLES OF THE UNLIVING
young topaz
@vagrant moat
@woven nymph
@zenith wyvern
@mellow pine
@dark escarp