There is a period nestled within the night
A time when time itself falls apart
When every single thing glows
A cyanotype work of art
Every living being who remains awake to witness

Transforms anew
Silver spectres in the perfect blue

When the hallowed grounds plunge into dusk,

the Pale Acolytes rise from a bacterial slumber

Milky legs splay out in a greeting of thousands

Beady black eyes shine wide

Pronged tails flicker in the damp air,

of the glass temple they dwell inside
Upon an altar of rot

To a god of fungal decay

The white monks of the soil begin to pray

One of my few tethers to the human kind,
a grounding point for the psychotic mind,
is when the clock hands strike midnight,
and September arrives

The sensations fall upon me as a sparkling sheet
Of auburn leaves that crunch beneath the feet
Glistening conker shells rocked gently from the trees;

by the longed-for kiss of the autumn breeze
The days that flicker like the dying flames,

of candles that have burned for too long

The touch of a warm darkness profound
Without fail, each time, I am left

He arrives from the shining darkness,
cloaked in a circling eclipse of moths

They crawl on his antique coat.
As they sing their silent psalm,
their unholy idol reaches with a gloved palm
Amongst dust and floral smells unknown
Hundreds of night angels
spew from his sleeve alone

He casts his glittering gaze into mine,
eyes preserved through the tides of time
The living wardian case
That still teems with exotic flowers
Eternally perpetuating,
with blood as its water

Masochism and mystique
The thoughts with infinite ways to speak
As numerous as the songbirds
In the twilight’s peak

Crazed eyes pierce through the starry seam

This reality lies in tatters, and all that remains

is a deathly dream

I am not the coldest human
or the warmest machine
But instead I'm condemned
to walk inbetween