Nyctophilia.

Ceremonious convolution of thaumaturgy. 

Grudging blizzard, frosty and spiritless, 

Their ungula pierces my pungent zest

As though my spluttering blood could fodder malice.

Hunting down my isle

Prowling, snarling,

An outcry escapes their barraging self

And their bawling soul escapes in horror 

Deep into a withering morrow

Where perchance dreams may duck

Into their devious homeland

Their devious, ravishing homeland.

Quivering in such reverent shrine

I dread my angst,

I peer from under my recreancies, 

I flicker my eyes,

Aghast, and spent, and barren,

And conceivably deceased,

Conceivably, enduringly deceased

In a tomb of disavowal demission. 

Plated masks slaughter all mirrors and their bounds

They loathe me.

Scowling and sulking from the heavens, surveying my cherished Infraworld

Which stonewalls my incurable ailment. 

I bellow in infuriated bliss, and I wish them all cataclysms and woe,

And I lock myself in pity,

I loathe them. 

I feed on an ale made up of myths and fictional conjectures

Of solitude and rousing umbrae.

I befriend them.

I yearn for friends.

Yet self-sufficiency triggers the mightiest of powers,

It reinforces me.

For I alone can pursue goals they know not of,

Since minds so scanty little do amass. 

Desires will hatch when the time comes,

Like the sovereign finale of an eternal journey,

A masterpiece.

Comprising the lone outlander far and wide, who could I rely on?

This palaver of blasphemies lacks gist

And I desperately gasp for air,

Yet all I inhale

Is venom.

Helplessly lying on a bed of carrion,

I ask my beloved dimness why I love its ghastly flair,

For I see nothing in it.

Nonetheless, it is so soothing, so mollifying,

Palliative relief I brew and revel in. 

I tamed my beast, he hums and sings to me,

And I tune lyrics none has heard before. 

Perhaps the prestige of glory

Bridles cunning treachery,

Like a put-up dartboard

Eagerly seeking for its arrow's osculation.

Aiming in fellow hideousness,

To murder. 

They slit my skin and roses stain the snowy gift below our feet,

In summer.   

I hope to bloom someday.

I savour the fragrant pomegranate trees in my hollow subterrane,

My bridled monster purrs,

He loves me.

I saved him from his fate,

Though his bruises fail to heal and sometimes flourish

Impersonating scarlet petals that taste of hunting malice,

Prowling, snarling malice,

A malice whose outcry escapes her barraging self,

Slaughtering mirrors and their bounds,

To prove their nerve and vigour,

So that I can fight back,

Valiantly, fearlessly, 

Beautified by scars, varnished with heart, and soul, and joy,

I see myself in tears, embracing night, entwining day, 

For stars are suns, both close and far away,

And my leviathan of faith gazes down at me and purrs again,

And I glance at my reflection, somewhere deep inside its heart,

And she glances back,

She loves me. 

Addah Monoceros.

© 2004.