In the Garrison of Charon

Behind my sunken, shallow eyes dissected phantoms draw themselves and smeared perceptions comprise a scheme to thwart the wicked spell. Poignant screens of smoke and screams lactate upon my lungs where illustrations scrawl o'er dreams of twisted eyes and cursive tongues. And burning embers torture groans in visual dreams like vocal hymns the sound a scratch on chalkboard bones a testimony of the grim. The injured malevolent and destitute, their pity played on sane despair; decapitations done of gratitude throw heads aloft the endless massacre. The milk of tattered spirits wreath the blades that Chaos thrashes round and restless victims thrash beneath unsettled graves, unholy ground. I'd flee the bloody Styx and death but taints of darkness linger on enmeshed in sticky threads of Fate’s dank breath I know survival would be a phenomenon And as the oars of Charon paddle hours I will not pray to reincarnate for Life itself is damned and it devours with wraiths of faith I cannot satiate.