Gallery of Mythos

I could feel it, disguised as panting -

consumed by drops of rum and the faint smell of incense -

the otherwise cold and soothed skin

scratched on the surface with spent cloth and concrete;

horror vacui.

His eyes darkened,

the room spinning - counterclockwise,

shunned against, beaten, black against black,

like arms, embedded on the walls.

It was 7 and 5,

or 6 and 4,

1 burnt cigarette per lip,

and the unwelcome morning.

"This is the story of vampires,"

I thought:

"never to walk in sunlight,

never to be acknowledged,

never to be known

or be seen again."

After the encounter,

only a faint notion of reality remains.

As a survivor,

you are now the sole possessor

of shattered images

and bruised limbs.