The light is not tender:
the secrets
it illuminates
are not true
-
least to me -
on a day like this
when sun clones,
tanned flesh
bared,
wander like zombies
through the streets.
No,
the light is
not tender:
block the doorways
with wood,
for my only comfort
is
the storm clouds
which gather
inside my skull;
tearing at my polar
opposites
rendering the night -
my favoured companion -
bringing with
it
the dark
charactors which visit
as I huddle
in my shadowed
corner
awaiting the necromancer
and her trusted spider
which spits
truth
like venom
into my inner ear
poisoning my ego,
untill no
faith
song or prayer
can keep it from death.
No,
there is no
light
in a day
devoid of tenderness.
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