Slipping into destiny, I seek the animal spirit, the lone phantom of conscience which tickles my fear. I track his fleeting shadow, a thin vapor of echoes high on each footstep, a salty bead of terror which ignites anxiety.
My heart is relentless, a pounding fist filled with nails. The tension is palpable, a rich morsel for decadence. The scent of his flesh, red and toxic, a feral pastry for the sinner and his wicked cult. His mindless eyes boggle, those bulbous orbs filled with nursery crimes.
He breaks a deviant smile, a flash of those gnarly teeth, those jaded stumps and onion breath – a ripe banquet for the rats and roaches. Why does he plague me? Why does he persist in this ordained torture, this deprivation of sleep and all things natural?
I see the gaping hole in his faith, his essence consumed by rotting worms. Oh yes, I have witnessed him directly, this dancing fiend, a dirty little spider in every rib. I wish not to vanquish him, only to understand, to love him once more and rid him of mania, to nourish and reflect the ghoulish scars of his action.
Please come home son. It is time to let go, to repent for a life in sin. I will show you the way, but first you must help yourself. Just take my hand – put down the rage and take my bloody hand. It’s your last chance.
Art Blacktooth is a creative surgeon. He dabbles in literature, photography and illustration and lives in sunny Florida. His goals are to blend his unique flavor of poetry with abstract visuals, to share and inspire new ways for expressing prose...