Boogieman III Date Tuesday, April 23, 2024 - 09:23 PM PST Topic Experiences This one is probably spooky or sick. Duh. All hail Dolo Twisted spires and crying choirs, this my home is made of. Precious treasures dressed in their sunday best, my brothers my lovers, my catches all. Oh the Art is not lost in this place, with backwards angles and rains of razored lace. Sweetest things, such devoted studies, so free in their release. A thousand flickering candles of impossible delight, a million clacking claws of wood and withered leaves, watch them as they dance, watch them as they go. Oh how they suffered, oh how they screamed, and ah...so delicious, see how they go. More and more, the world between sleep is filled with so many more. You perfect beauty you, such exquisite form and finesse, with your broke-button eyes, you've done this, yes you have, and the reward is in the work no less. Take all the suffering, take all the tears, take all the sins of the innocent and hide them all away, conceal it all in that long black coat and hands of filth and moth-wing dust. Watch your children play, in the fields of skin and teeth, twirl amidst the fog and stare blankly with hollow hourglass eyes into windows. So sincere, so hungry. You teach so well, and the master is surpassed by his students. A Father sees his son, so strong and so changed. The lying little wretch, the filthy, cowardly scourge has grown twisted and proud. No more unclean touches, no more unheard cries in the night, no...the son has returned to his home, to take his baby sister away from it all. So strong, so proud, so very very there. I must admit, the aged don't give off the same sweet taste as the young, a rank stink of fear and fetid evacuation, a stumbling of words and thoughts, a cloud of madness safely locking it all away. Excuses are all we bring to those who sleep easy, but what excuse can cover another morsel stolen away? A Mother finds her daughter's defender, haphazardly lost in the wash. Hated little beast, vicious shrieking fiend with it's silent maddening eyes. Where oh where is your little girl now? I can tell you...oh yes, yes I can. She is with me oh wondering mother, drinking in my teeth and knick-knack eyes. She is leaning against the wall of stolen faces, and adding her own thin lips to it. She writes on the halls of forgotten children, her name now where no one reads. She puts on that coat with finesse and grace, and takes her eyes out to be replaced...with catnip and spider-web, nestling in them two cracked marbles. She has style, yes she does, my magnum opus, my epitaph, she'll be the best. And all I had to do was wait, wait and stand, just between, where thought and dream mix like fetid mud with flesh and wood. A Mother sees her daughter, so beautiful so wise. They always come back, even after they give it all away. They come back at night, when those who hurt and denied them rest uneasily. The children come back, like I taugh them to, and they make their mark. But oh, if it could go on forever. A thousand precious lapses into memory. More deep bites into the rotten flesh of what was. But no...I think not. Theres work to do. Tears stain pillows, skin is touched, words are forgotten, presences are regretted. All these things, these delightful beacons are our lighthouse. All these things call and we are they who answer. I am the ferryman, with iron and bat-wing boots I lay the path. My children move, as do I, and we go out to take those who need to be taken. Oh ignored, oh detested, oh wretched. oh children. You are welcome here. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=737