Intoxicated Death

A waterfall of blood cascades upon us,

It is so beautiful,

But the taste disturbs.

We all dance in the crimson pools,

Singing in our purification,

The alien tones flowing in the midnight air.

No one shall find us,

For Tonight the moon does not shine,

And our ritual is performed deep in the forest,

Black trees cloak us,

As we Dance through blood and ivy in cleansing,

Our faults obscured crookedly in our faces.

We shed them in our chasing intoxicated rage,

Where they run and hide in the dead trees,

Dying in slow agony without the force of life.

Cruel flaws dead and gone we croon in euphoria,

For in the end we shall be free...

Because the end is near,

The blood that falls upon is our own,

Our souls shall leave us like our faults.

We are dancing corpses in the cold night,

As we sing in bliss,

Insects join us,

Chirping in unison,

For I believe they know of what we sing...

The sacred cleansing.

We await death in song,

Drenched in our own blood.

Black rose petals cascade from above,

Stroking our faded skin,

Healing the scratches and cuts,

Sending an intoxicating scent through the forest.

The trees whisper to each other of our strange dance,

With our nameless melodies,

How it is that insects understand our flowing language,

Rolling from our tongues in intone,

Draped in darkness,

Our elation and ecstasy resounding,

So that no one beyond the trees may hear.

We all taste the closeness of the end,

Through a bitter claret,

That murmurs as it makes a pattern upon the ground,

The dark faeries have come to sing,

Black wings, all in garments of blue and onyx,

Picking the dead flowers...

They glow like stars,

Which tonight are not in the sky,

Maybe they have plunged to nothingness,

Leaving us alone to breathe our last.

An old lullaby lingers in the air,

Ringing softly behind our cry,

Pulsating like the beating of a heart,

Which in itself is a lullaby...

A lullaby of monsters,

Distorting child's fables,

Twisting the words so that they turn to nightmares and lurid images,

Causing hemorrhage of the imagination,

And we chase that away.

Our hundred voices mutter of secrets not to be told,

Slashing silk and watching as silver candles silently dissolve,

Mimicking a unicorn's blood,

Killing more myths as antique porcelain flowers crumble,

Turning them to pink cinders...

And the willows weep,

Whilst green leaves whither into black ash.

Wind breathes upon us,

The mixed dust touching our flesh,

Leaving scars in place of our old cuts,

From which bleed black tears,

Which hang like ornaments before falling to the ground.

From the earth we lift shards of life,

They are soon to be smashed,

Us with them.

The dark faeries shimmer in excitement,

As we feel slight pain in our chests,

Blue dewdrops streaming from the corners of our lips as we sigh in bliss and sorrow.

The shards shatter,

Catching in our skin as we descend to the soft soil,

Only blue pours out,

For all our blood was wasted in the painted configuration upon the ground,

The moon...

Which has turned from burgundy to silver,

It bled to the ground,

As we are falling stars.

The dark faeries drape our final remains in the darkness that is the fallen sky,

Which plunged down after the moon finished its invisible dripping.

The dried flowers are scattered across our earthen caskets,

Red dust and cinders sprinkled upon them,

Then we go up in flames,

As the moon and sky float back above.

....And our song still continues....

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