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Photo: Kev Soto/

Here is the blind woman led down that awful cold corridor

There are no colors. The mile is a dark, deathly slate,

and we see the wired eyes, smell the putrid coffee breath

See the vile sneer, her chapped lips curled, and we sense

her dread, her nameless, impending, savory end.

The watchmen, erect, thin fingers poised for the kill

Glare at the subdued monster, and they cringe at her

sour Cheshire Cat grin, and soon she will leave our

grim carnival where no more clowns caked in bright makeup

gawk and guffaw, and be a wilted rose in heaven

Her grubby, greasy hands that dined on fried chicken and fries

hang listless, washed of those lepers’ blood, the seven demons

that defiled, tore at her plump flesh. Here is the cursed martyr

Standing by her plush grave, silent, waiting for her final sleep.

Her soul grieves, having avoided the slumber to only meet her

last hour, guilty to us yet spotless in her plight.

Here is a coursing stream of dark matter. We direct the hatred,

everything flawed and deranged, at her. The poison is ready,

and those smudged fingers haven’t struck our cheeks, but she

leaves a lingering sting of somber quiet. We are marred,

and we glance away as she jeers, “I’ll be back! I’ll be back!”

That last meal was consumed…was her hunger appeased?

And those elongated teeth tearing, gnawing at meat and bone,

her desire to steal life, present at those men’s deaths,

Fleeting into the eerie nights, would they join the phantom throng and

Would she be spared from Hell? There is no reply.

Here is a chilling doom, a pest, an enduring sorrow, and we

Watch the clock, perched above us, strike the hour, her flight.

She craves justice, and the scoffs ring clear, her stomach

Growls, screaming to escape our surreal pantomime, the

Vicious, decayed teeth of her prison cell bars. “I’ll be back!”

Here, in the grim white room, is shame. She is marked.

Stained, blotted, humiliated like Hester, her figure dyed blood red

and doomed, an outcast. Her aghast look is fixed.

Those eyes, two endless cauldrons, black, grimy, cracked

Bloodshot, watery, and crazed as she yearns to slay her betrayers.

And here, at this hour near her end, is the child, her dour offspring

Her deed ruminates in that stinking ditch, where those despicable

Sleeping corpses are strewn, those vile, slain, silent men

They provide a looking glass, an exhibit of disgusting filth, of death

The end of them ended her. Her offspring serves as the bookend

awaiting down that hall, that lethal mile, the carnival’s end.

And here she cries, “I’ll be back! I’ll be back!” A wilted, unfurled rose,

her burnt vanilla bean skin, brown, tainted by the watchmen, their

gobs of spit hanging from her, she slips into the plush bed,

far from comfortable, for this eternal sleep will overwhelm her.

The poison enters, the hour arrives, and the Father leads her away.

Here is the horror, how ghastly, where her shell slackens, then stiff

And now we see but a thick veil, a morbid cloak strewn over her mouth

A jagged reflection of this madness, her terror, horrorstruck,

Lips gaping, the horror identical to the seven slain men, the

Curse of this tale, a dark, dank, rotten, filthy madhouse.

It’s her carnival.

And here we leave, the hour has passed, it’s over.

The makeup is wiped from our faces, but we still look absurd.

We are, in her warped psyche, still clowns, our verdict empty

As our reaction, and now only a withered, greenish stump.

We are gone. We know only her curse, but her?

No, she remains an enigma.

Born and raised in CA. Film, literature, music, poetry, mostly gay/queer/GSM topics. Stick around if I haven’t bored you yet.

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