It is the stale mask of this forbidden sanctuary, pirouetting like the last dying ember of a thin candle begging in the drunken socket, to gasp the treatise of a merciful release. It is in silence that the wish begins. Formless: I see the swollen ribs of a mutilated horse, its inner secret; a cabbage blossom filled with rice and worms. Flies slither on the backs of eels, and; like a great weight within the womb, its yoke slowly sinks within the marsh of this hungry fire. The spiders thread cuts deeper than the bone and ripples across the mirror as I reflect. From sickness to the crisp linen clouds of winter, I draw upon the softest breath, and release my infernal bow. I hear the wail of pretas: Hungry Ghosts. The bartered conditions of softness vainly seek to illuminate the face of heaven, and I am left to retrace the chalk cartouche of the shadows molested name within my mind.
~S~
eightzeroone:
Puddin's coming, it just needs a bowl.
kristie:
What an intriguing image...