Sackcloth and Ashes

Midnight chimed day assassination, sudden as a brain haemorrhage, star-stabbed by psychotic pins; issues aborted of carbonised wombs blacked streets, tar-slithered. Recovering drunk, cold sobered, imaged upon liquid plate glass, appliances dormant and flower-pressed beyond his ghost, whiskey tears wept prior sins. Crying within for little or nothing, the once embryo of the thing he became, or that reflections now seem more tangible of look than he would ever feel again. Invisible sackcloth mantled the bones, he wore it well, his future path paved ashes to some place in the dark, the equation lacked love. So the dead can walk, he observed, approximating signs of life; and so well he knew the dead, they whispered catechisms in his head, for he only ever talked to himself.