Auric Obsidian - The Face Clean Behind the Gun

"Auric Obsidian - The Face Clean Behind the Gun" You drew me into your new world, the corridors of your mind fitted me perfectly imperfect into the portraits pegged onto your wall an unsuspecting target from the get-go groomed on the run brood mare, surrogate I hung there like an old coat you pretended to love once long ago, well worn while my life bled out into the cracks of your secret hidden under the rugs, coffin floors each drop of my life in seconds fed your hungry monster reasons, the unaware purity of such auric, cooked obsidian, before feeding, unnoticed grace was not spoken it was never spoken nor acknowledged, there were no blessings required to satiate the reasons why, and absolve your hidden abnormal feelings there were children waiting, in that underworld there was a roiling romance underneath your book jacket I could feel your heart beating beneath the life, the lack of it it barked incessantly like a sharp toothed whippit, its monkey mind no Rodin clung like an incubus to my back, yet, the reptilian in me had enough sense to attack, so in that sense I turned my back and walked away after your selling of all that mattered in the signing of that contract your “save me”... well, on my time, was swiftly packed away the act of doing so, swaddled in affidavits, I put what mattered most, first front and centre, surely justice would see the contract through complete something worth everything in this life is never ever delivered that easy - complex, the doors like Bluebeard unravelled and hidden in the cracks in floors under carpets, the touched children were swept, torn bleeding lives buried, hidden the carnage you bore absolved, as others knelt before their alters of denial like you were some born-again demon you were swiftly and graciously forgiven and loved again still, the Other, dare I say, I am - that Other one, shot son-of-a-b*tch bullets the triggers exploding in strange tornados ripping up pages like confetti over funeral plots the red shoes firmly planted like thorny red roses pricking thumbs that turned new pages the crimson dripping ink for the running writing not once wasted in labyrinths delphis wearing black crow mojo cloaks the face clean the hands ready the motive quite pure though clearly debated still, that Other one stands firm unmoved and unshaken always in front of the lie behind the smoking gun finger ever ready on the trigger some silver bullets never work, there are other dynamic torturous methods schools out the student observes the teachers says this is the start of a new lesson run rabbit run Candide Diderot. ‘24 Michaela adds that she's only seen a true black aura once. "Black is kind of like a void—like their soul is not present," she describes."