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Trucks stop Rites
We stopped to get water at a small gas station and I discovered a
necklace in my pocket belonging to a certain someone, begging to be returned. I replaced it among the altar, and the circle
was closed. Everything was real. I walked the whit path to the door, the rite ended.
Outside we danced in the truck stop parking lot, ritualistically
in celebration. The curse was gone. The sad part was that she never realized she was the curse.
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Clandestine Rooms
There were secret rooms upstairs in a house Ill never see
again. Yet there we sat admiring the work we had done. The walls were now covered in a story of the past and warnings of what
was to come.
The small door led to a sterile white room. Where all was
plastic and cold. From room to room I traveled with my bags packed, seeing pictures from party full of debauchees and moderns.
I don't remember how I got away but I did and I found myself empty.
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