It stares into the night. Four sides, with offset eyes and lids that never blink. Glossed over, some with glass, some without, looking, ever seeing in the dark skies.
Inside was the bits and pieces of what there was and never was, it burned in cold silence, only the edges where birds would move, not near the halls or the ins and outs of it all, where darkness played its part with perfect timing, in the day or night, it looked the same, cross, bent, injured with healing taking place so slow as to let deterioration inside.
Mad shadows, and image pressed in, with standing figure whose arms were vague and darkness filled in where his legs would be. While I felt his burning, white hot insides, peeling at the paint of Camelot, and all the royal bits that once were the castle where kings and princesses roamed.
To spill my blood on the floor, this blood that burns from the inside out, so easy to cover, so bright and deeply red. The shadow soaks our contempt like nectar, essence of death and life. Anything must be better, than living here, waiting on the end.
Watch us here, where the eyes look out, where only the dead mind can wander, where the night remains the night.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Julie Jones
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