Don't wake up
Lonely times, pilgrim. Turns out, there isn't even anyone to laugh at you, when it's all over. No smug face of God, no aw-shucks fingersnap of Satan. There's just Your face, crying on its little pillow in a dark room, any room. Oh but there are demons galore, circumscribing the night caught by your pretty lids. Underneath. Inside. Dark emerald turns its face bloody with polygonal sweat. Blood? Is it tears, or drops of blood, that someone is weeping? How tragic to write oneself into a dream, only to ape Christ there too. His letters red, your letters blue. Your blue letters to the widow, stuffing your pillow like swollen feathers. The emerald demons with red, triune eyes-- a columnar array enfolds the widow in wings, enfolds her wings of devotion, her paper wings with love's scribbles.
Are you God? Why?
A corpse can think. It realizes it was right or wrong. It has plenty of time. A corpse knows we all go back to God, one way or another. Love or hate, widow or demon, no one can leave him out of their picture. If God didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent his widow. A corpse has enough time, but you don't. You are ruining the paper giving you rest. Soaking the pillow cradling your dead skull. Your skull shines through your face like dark emerald. Your mouth was always a few triangles, worn against some kind of loss. I am a polygon now. I am a Platonic solid's corpse. I am a higher-order shape's widow, just like you. You are me and that is what is killing us. We are evil.
Sometimes the eyes open a little, to let in more fresh gauze, to sop the oozing of the head. The head that trickles oozes, that flows down a high face, a hard thing, cutting randomly a channel ooze, an oxbow's caress in the hour of the ox, crucifying sweet curses on the crucifix of the corpse's face's crux, opening the bloom of silent sight.
A corpse has plenty of time.
Don't wake up
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