My Ink is Dark, The Eye Darker Still

(building a better horror writer)

I root for possibilities
cloistered amongst the charnel and the chum
sifting, sorting, weighing
hacking meaning from the shadows that hide
between the darkness and the light

A fisher of deep waters
my mind channels the residued dreamlets
of a diligent mudstained resurrectionist
beheaded by the spade of a pissed off sexton
so much unclaimed clay rotting in the mosh of potter's field

A sniper, a dissectionalist, a microscope slide
the gun slits of my vision
scraped clean by a roadkilled squeegee bum
let me peel the eyelids of your imagination
staring coffin into a remorseless bloodstained sunset

You romantacists squeal blithely of the hope
that glows in the heart of your pastel sunrise
my ink is dark, the eye darker still -
listen, the hellwheel you call the sun isn't shining
it's burning down.