Herr d’enfer

Herr d’enfer

By Aran Meredith.

I have a distorted vision of reality. My own creation devised by a kaleidoscopic lens. And a broken prism. Gilded with silver, glass and pyrite.

A fool searching for the false gold. A magician missing an arm, aspiring to become the hermit and the hierophant.

So I drink to your whimsy, from the chalice of youth bled dry in a perpetual moment. Yours and mine.

Who are you at the end of the day? Kept asking the wrong question. What are you at this particular point in time? What abomination, a ghost of the past and a lost soul?

The day is long yet time fell short. All are blurred fragments, incomplete montage collected in a broken lantern.

Checking the book of hours, I’m short of the right word.

What time is it? ——Anyway.

The secret of the Abyss is that it presents itself as a comfortable place to live and to dwell in. It was.

Til it was no longer. The trife and the impossibility of lifting oneself up from the right side up hourglass. You tilt it but all it comes are black water and tears of sand.

A luminous eye was watching. And lights died down.