There is a room that occupies my brain.
Impossible to count how many walls;
the architecture more complex than the humble cube.
The walls are either far too dark
or bright to see the edges,
yet I know that they are there.
Always a corner in which to cower
On one side the walls are black.
Not even shadows linger here,
snuffed out like candles
by a foreign hand.
This is where my old friend Darkness dwells.
The rasps and whispers of Its many voices
speak to me in words
that I don’t understand.
Je te hais (I hate you)
I can’t hear you.
Je t’adore (I love you)
She cannot hear it either,
in Her onyx echo chamber.
She is a blinding sight to see,
piercing as She is
with ashen curls that drift in eddies
to the tainted floor,
petticoat as pure as uncrumped snow
and paper skin of alabaster.
Her face is stained with Her mascara tears
and like neglected porcelain
She peels away
The Girl in White.
Forlorn the eyes that long for Her forever home,
banished as She is to the eternal dark.
Looking, though She cannot reach it,
yearning for return to the place where She belongs.
Her melancholy gaze fixed at the feet
of the usurper.
Her outstretched arm allows Her fingertips
to brush the very edge of those two worlds,
but not to cross it
and, tilting up Her aching neck, She cries
for She must kneel
while cruel Misfortune stands above,
unfurling painted lips,
As fire’s smoke chokes the nimbus,
so too the soot-shod traitor smothers the light
of the second half of the room.
Mon petit nuage (My little cloud)
Viens ici (Come here)
I can’t see you.
Tu me dégoutes (You disgust me)
Allez-vous en (Go away)
She cannot see it either,
in Her ivory temple.
In this gleaming world, She draws the eye
like a moth to flame,
death’s head upon Her wingéd back.
Lustrous locks of poker-straight obsidian
hang about Her neck.
Black too the irises that drink
with a thirst unquenchable.
She does not belong here,
feeding as She does upon the fading light:
The Girl in Black.
Her laugh peels out like church bells.
Straight-backed and confident She smirks
down upon the betrayed.
She knows that this is not Her world,
yet she cares not, hardened as She is
from a lifetime formed of smoke and shadow.
At last cruel Envy was thrown aside,
no more drowning her tormented eyes,
and in Its place rose bitter Victory.
Once more the tolling of the bell
as The Girl in Black throws back Her head
and has the last laugh.
Daily do I visit this room.
Sometimes it is the voice of The Girl in White
chiming awful sadness,
calling me to release Her,
bloodied and whimpering,
as Alice through the looking glass flooding
saltwater salvation at Her aching knees.
Sometimes the sawing screams of The Girl in Black,
shrieking words relentless in their wounding,
talons gouging at the others’ eyes,
gripping tendrils in Her raging grasp,
spitting fire like the Devil’s chord
from Her forked tongue.
Sometimes the silence pulls me in,
to which I find Them sat, cross-legged,
across from each other on the line
that separates the worlds.
There is neither hatred nor fear,
no games at play,
no plan afoot for torture or escape.
They simply stare and in this moment
they are one and the same.
This temporary bliss a haven
long-desired, yet short-lived.
The war continues in the room in my brain.
It does not end, and never shall.
my Sun and Moon.
Intertwined in the infinite hunt,
fuelled by Love and Hate,