The Imagined Life of Black and White

(c) Lyric Doe

Tick.
Fear.

Hanging
In your corner
Darkened
By shadow
Grave scented
Thick with blood
And mourning,
I am.

Waiting.

Figment
Of imagined life.
Stranger than
Fictional being.
Am I real to you?

Skin.
Nerve.
Sinew.
Muscle.
Bone.
Organ.
Blood
That reigns
As it drips
And coagulates
In between
Your ears
Unheard.

Tick.

I descend.
Purple-black
And glittering
From the
Sweet remains —
Syrupy grief —
And make madness.
You will see
Through blinded eye
I pierce;
You will see
Me
In corners
That you fear.

Tick.
Hear.

And what if I were to
Break down
Walls
To let my scream
Echo
In your corner?
Would you still look away?
Would you string
Words that are,
And perhaps
Have always been,
Ashen speck
Caked
In oily
“Empathetic” stanzas
Of standard type
And MLA citation?
Useless and rote
Much as you are.

Tick.

Do you imagine that I bleed?
Can you fathom that I feel pain too?
Or is it that when you
Grin ears across
And call yourself friend
Even you don’t believe
The lie.

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

Instead,
I continue
Collecting
Each sadness,
Vivid
Burning
In their spectral ways
And I will
Use them in ways,
Bringing your wonderland
Down
In glorious flame
And rebirth.
Maybe then
You’ll learn
To form
Steely words
From paper lips
But by then my ears
Will be deaf
And my eyes
Will be blind
To your
Final gasping soliloquies.
And in the end
I will collect you too.