TWILIGHT'S CHASMS

Crooked fingers of light
poking at the darkness,
snakes are felt slithering
through the blackness,
lying with can't cushions
covering the face
so one won't have to conjure
a fun house mirror
to shine upon the toxin excuses
buried under a dilapidated confessional
shaped like an outhouse.

Feeling the hint of sunset
brushing the void,
only enough to be terrorize
by the mutants it paints
upon the walls
murmuring their melancholy tales.

Holding a candle and matches
mumbling a macabre soliloquy
about wax cannibals.

Praying night will finally kill
the last rays of illumination
so one doesn't have to remember
hand's are holding a ladder.