Perfectly Dark

Sunday night is the black wall of life

Dark matter camouflaged as empty night

Draped over a craggy mountain at twilight

Written as invitation to span its vacancy

Stifling ever its snicker blistering for release

Emancipating the pulse of its covetous fist on a trusting nose

 

For gone, now, the confidence of filched advantage.

Execrable are you.

May you be cast into the hell that clothes you,

The ridges of the harrying demon’s black armor

Your decomposing fester of buzzing, fly-beset flesh

Your song of amusement, your pitches of heaved celebration

And your jubilant ballad of achievement.

 

For at its floor the truth:

Sunday night, the black wall of life,

And there, the grave post on which is written:

“Here lies peace.”

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