Some Little Notes

- The Third Collection, from Several Months Before the Tour -

 

According to the poems in that very battered journal, William’s story continued despite his death. 

 

Hectate

The gristle-sounds, fragments of me shoved aside

Are the final sounds to which I leave my life.

My corpse, like a poorly pinned butterfly

Of a carless collector, slides off its mount.

 

I look up to my grotesque conqueror,

His crooked jaws wide as he calls out in victory.

I feel blood and hate ebb out of me,

Both diminishing as they spread over the floor.

 

I see the priest of a demon staring at me,

He blurs and shifts, clarity becomes chaos.

Any fear I have of him fades as he now does.

My eyes dim and close around him.

 

When I open them again, I am surprised.

Death has a finality not easily ignored, 

Yet I see again through vision blurred.

I see three of the one butchering my body.

 

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