death in my room

He is beautiful, ghostly and haunted, he is...I see death in my room.

Sleep doesn't come easy to me, it doesn't...nein. Tossing and turning sending out the dreams to forever where connection resides. I travel at once, finally finding the depths of that awful place where the wall is cold. There I sit in contemplation. For hours it seemed, but it was only seconds that I sat there until I found the mud and mixed the mortar. It was a strange concoction made from my blood and tears and some thick white goo of forgotten love. I put them back...back into their places and the wall was whole. I was tired then and so I traveled back to where my dreams end.

I woke...suddenly startled by the presence of his nothingness. He was neither here not there but he waited by my window. With a flick of his carpals, he turned on my light.

I never wake to the darkness...it is bright and hurting my eyes. I at once stood in my nakedness and scowled after the thing that pulled me from the darkness.

He chuckled as if he had any vocal cords at all. He blew me a kiss as if he had any lips and then he floated across the floor in the sound of some rustling horrible thing in the night. I just watched with a strange allure that I coudlnt imagine death as this silly thing before me. He reached into my closet and pulled forth my Betsy Johnson dress. It was a pink floral thing, and I must admit, it fit me perfectly. He thrust the dress into my arms and backed away with the bones of his hand touching his bleached white skull. Death was trying to be funny in his own little way. And so I took the dress because I knew how hard this must be for him.

"Is it time?"

Death did not answer, he stood still standing by the closet door. I looked down at the dress in my hands and then back to him.

"Tis my funeral attire, right sir?" I swallowed the lump in my throat and knew that it was just a matter of time until I should join my friend there. He smiled but it was a smile like when yo u see a dog smile. You dont really see the smile at all, you feel it in your soul and it makes the eyes imagine that the bones slid upward and produced such a menacing thing.

 "And what about the feast?"

Death said nothing more but came forward taking my hand in his. The bones were odd and smooth, neither cold nor warm. He raised my hand and kissed it. I held my breath and watched him as he rose to face me. The dark holes of his eyes were there watching me wonder. But death said nothing because death did not speak. And no, it was not because he had no vocal cords, nor was it because he was ominous; it was because there was never really any need for words.

I took the dress from the hanger and pulled it over my naked body. I turned to show death as he walked toward the window.

"so, how do I look? Will this one do?"

Death reached out and touched my cheek and I knew there was still time. Death turned his cold white boney face upward and made a motion as to sniff the air. Oh, and that was probably the creepiest thing you shall ever see. Like a bone hound stalking its prey, it was. I sniffed the air with him and smelled nothing. I knew then what he meant.

I could not smell the feast and so it was not time. Death would have me wander the night in my funeral attire and horrify the living. I would run from abode to abode taking what I needed for the preparations. Then when I was finished, we would make the feast and toast the trip.

And I would go home again...at last.

...this side of the wall, with pen and pad in the brambles of my dark heart.

Now I lay me down to weep, I pray that death will help me sleep and if I give my blood at least, I hope that death prepares a feast...