Gray Day

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A hollow headed hood carries nothing so neat as scythe, but rather a wide, sloppy brush. One

broad stroke and everything becomes infinite shades of neutral tint: fog, tire smoke,

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gun metal sinking in the North Sea, cremation ash, snow day sky, dust in the corner of the

crypt. O how this hollow hue cuts and forces a somber blood, so much more effective than

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a sharpened sickle. I feel my brothers and sisters turn in their frustrated graves. King.

Queen. Twin. Single. Hierarchy has no power and knowledge brings no answers to Faust addicts.

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Fear is a fluid with staying power and can easily moonlight as embalmer. Jumbling R.E.M

cycles tumble: “The white of their eyes / The black of their dreams. Body bag blacks / Caretaker whites

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incarcerating the shadow spectrum like cadaver flesh bobbing in a bottle of formaldehyde. Am

I looking at Death? Is death looking at me? Everywhere this duo tone question haunts.