it’s never about what happened but what it seems to have happened;

it’s always about what they say, not the truth;

the truth is wrapped in the silk of the hours;

there’s also a stain or a wrinkle

hidden in a fold of that smoothness: sometimes, without warning,

horror bursts out of it like a jack-in-the-box,

the gentle breathing of the rain becomes a scream -

a scream so piercing as if the whole world screams,

foliages tremble, mirrors break, birds fall from the sky; it is

the shrill wailing of a demon or a dying animal, it is

a sharp blade slashing the clean face of the day; 

i listen, petrified, as it claws at my sanity; i freeze and close my eyes;

i try to summon the things i loved and cherished

in the valley of ashes and dancing shadows:

bleak childhood,

corrupted innocence,

pain yet unnamed.

please, no mercy for me: that horror is of my own making.

the narrow path we follow - who opened it for us?

i can see the threads between me and you and everybody else

like a colourful embroidery that grows and spreads;

i can see the traces I left in other people’s minds

when our dreams intersected for the blink of an eye;

i can see their hearts in mine - blazing, red, alive -

a fleeting impression of oneness, 

of never being alone in life or death; 

i can see myself plummeting into the vast darkness:

it is not a fall;

it’s an inverted flight to the stars.

diminished, defeated, unknown to the gods,

fallen at the feet of those I once loved;

here I am: a warm raindrop hanging from a spiderweb,

drinking the blood of the sunset;

come with me, follow the dark staircase up to the broken sky

of yet another sleepless night; i’ve got no stories to tell

but i’ve got  illusions and false hope to peddle - 

they are the honey of the poor and the cursed;

there’s also a sweeter poison you can pour in your cup:

the guilt and self-loathing of those who were betrayed,

wounded and left for dead.

stay still, wait no more, be silent!

watch the hours dance their menuet;

do not stir in your cocoon of lostness:

every flapping of the wings is a laceration 

of the night’s smooth body.