Nyx who was a friend

turned to ungentle foe

lying in the spoon of moon peel

made brittle by pain’s languid persistence

spun inside out, the hearth of me

now cold, ashen and unswept

beholden to siren call

encapsulated in agonies reflection

I writhe and turn like wild creature

caught in typhoon’s hold

there is nothing that can be said

words should be buried alongside my collapse

to urge coming spring her bouquet

my chest assailed by needle priest

I am without succor, sanity, solace

night, whom I loved; now torment

wraps her erasure in long opera gloves

and, bracing the storm, retraces hours

with hideous accuracy

I am both alive and dead

flayed and exulted

present and absent

you call but I let it go to voicemail

what would I say?

words do not own enough for the

escaping howl in my splintering ribs

or the wail of wind urging further madness

pain is a light left on in an empty house

pain is a nymph glimpsed briefly in periphery

pain is an unwanted guest who eats you out of

house and home

the tireless ransack

a wound without blood

she lies just beneath the surface of cold water

looking like she will hold you from the icy depths

beckoning the unwary

to try their turn on her shimmering dress

it is a false surety

for as you drown

unreachably cold in template

you know your error

she has no tenderness

hers is the peripetia skin drum

beaten raw without respite

even the ache of living has nothing

as awful as her embrace

going long into dread night

till chill fingers of dawn reach

setting you on another day’s stage

where no actor treads

such is the contagion of your eyes

wild in stilled fear

like the glass blower

who leaves his color

too long in furnaces urging mouth.

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