Darkness calls like a lover, cold in our bed.
I’d like to answer in decaying kind.
The screams are shaking my skull but
The silhouettes say, “Carry on”.
The shadows meekly wax and wane.
Peripherally, I see them loitering
Lost Stygian feline, begging for the
Scraps of my sanity, soul, and saline.
She comes for me, the Crone in her shroud,
Like a grandmother, like a goal,
And I, mother of the arid sea-that-was, twist
To find the misleading maiden of my youth.
She says, “don’t quit,” but I miss it, the emptiness.
In sleep, I find the memory of not existing,
And my desiccated lust for life recedes further still.
So I answer them all in turn, “Soon, my love.”
Lucidity Lamb 