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Drilling For Brains (Mortician Cover)

Idolatry of the Unethical

Narcissistic Taphonomy

THE BLACK DAHLIA MURDER - What a Horrible Night to Have a Curse

15 Last Days Of Humanity - Brachio Proctic Defloration In Septic Atrophy

They do not cast it
They are inside it
The shadow arrives first
a black lake galloping ahead of its horses
It drinks the light before the light knows it is thirsty
Where it passes
footprints appear backward
leading away from the body that will make them tomorrow
Children chase it for fun
They grow up to be the silence between hoofbeats
Their mothers call names that now belong to the dark
The dark answers in their own voices
but older
tired
already mourning
The shadow has no edge
It leaks into cracks in the day
and widens them
until noon becomes a rumor told by frightened candles
A priest tries to exorcise it with bells
The bells ring hollow
The hollow fills with galloping
The priest forgets the difference between prayer and prey
He runs
The shadow lets him believe he is ahead
Then he meets his own silhouette coming the other way
It does not stop to greet him
At dusk the shadow rears
and the sun is trampled under a darkness that weighs nothing
Night falls upward
Stars scatter like startled mares
The moon is kicked across the sky
until it forgets which way is home
The owls ride inside the shadow
They do not need wings
They are the pupils of its thousand unseen eyes
They watch you watching the place where the horses should be
They smile with beaks made of your future mistakes
Somewhere a battlefield is born
just so the shadow has somewhere to graze
Armies charge into it
and disappear like salt into black water
Their banners keep waving
long after the hands are gone
The shadow uses them as reins
Do not follow the prints
They are invitations written in disappearing ink
Step in one and your reflection steps out
wearing your skin inside-out
It gallops away laughing
with your heartbeat in its mouth
The horses themselves
are only the rumor the shadow tells itself
when it needs an excuse to keep moving
Listen at 3:33 a.m.
when even the clocks are afraid to tick
You will hear it
not the thunder of hooves
but the soft wet sound
of the world being un-shod
one heartbeat at a time
The shadow does not end
It simply decides
you have seen enough
and pulls the night over your eyes
like a blanket made of missing horses
When you wake
your own shadow will be a little longer
a little heavier
a little more impatient
It is learning
how to run
without you
And when it finally leaves
you will follow
willingly
barefoot
into the place where light goes
to die of thirst
The shadow of hooves
is the only shadow
that casts a body
Run
if you still believe
you are the one
doing the running

Factory 81 - Peace Officer

I-vy Aiwarin

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