this, then, is the night.

this, then, is the night,
this pale
atrocity; pale Priest, wallowing in black
cloth, like a giant’s windsock,
with a lozenge of
white, of coffin-shaped
light.
he confesses through the
grill of television,
those prison bars which cage
the watchers.
his shame rises like
incense,
forming ghost-figures,
his squalid
judges in matted wigs.
he relives his
conquests now, a faint smile
playing around his
lips.
like a dreaming child, or
a marquis de sade
he
remembers what he has
done

and

entertains

us

all.

this, then, is the night.

darkvampire

Joined January 2009

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