Umbras

Dance cynically, fellow stranger, who he's called from nothing but the words he has inscribed down within his wrist in red ink and shallow incantation. Dance over that blank wall from which these empty eyes and body drained of life stare. Arm over the window sill, the blade smashes against the cement, two stories down. Deadly kindler of the fuming chimney that puffs only pastel gray smoke and licks of crimson, bandage the eggshell palette with red before you drift it into hell where it shall shrivel in black. Where the life that could have flourished in incandescent light now creeps on its paws and flickering tongue, spotting onyx soot imprints behind it, smearing the footsteps with its scaly tail; sparks of glass and salt burn the roof of its mouth. It wails in pain and the chains binding its knees together tighten. Kindler of Hell's fires, drag the beast to the chimney and with your tar filled lungs, send it up out of that wretched place into the judgement of the sun's rays. Shot with the fierce heat, the soot of the creature bursts unto the body below. Pale and cold is covered in lukewarm ash, and a colored eye flashes open and wanders; catching the sight of similar grotesque monsters of dense smog and melting mouths filled with snake tongues. He whose eye searches yelps as the ash of his self incrimination crawls from his skin and forms beside its brothers who stare down at him with dull sockets which should hold eyes. Beings of your blood are we. Feast on your soul we shall with pleasure. Clamping like skeletal lamprey to the hearts of those who love you. Feed us with that revenue of your blood; allow the kindler to afflict your troubles definitively with each exhale of clambering flame. Let us end your suffering. Say the hellions in hisses. Words spoken into the minds of those who seek death beyond the pleas of those who live. Those are the dictions of the stumbled dances of the self condemned. Explanations of those who play the song of the kindler become nothing but one thing, shadows.