Dark Intentions

Two figures are caught in a turbulent dance between life and death

About to meet in a violent clash of might and will

Speeding towards each other...two freight trains about to collide

Ghost

With flawless skin of midnight sable, iridescent gray hair flowing...

Clad in shimmery silk, I walk with dark intent - amidst a flowering field in the Blooming Vale of night.

Midnight strikes, the field awakens - no noise, but with a calm so deep it resonates.

Moonlight unfolds...spilt milk across the velvet earth...flowers, half-dreaming, half-divine, lift their faces to the stars.

Moonflowers unfurl, their pale petals glowing with ghostly grace, reaching out to passing moths.

Bluebells chime in silence, cobalt throats catching starlight like tiny tabernacle bells.

Night-blooming jasmine exhales sweetly, seducing the wind into staying.

Black tulips stand like sentinels, regal...brooding darkness with a kind of elegance.

Lavender sways in slow rhythm, perfuming the air...a song of 'too late', too late sung for me.

And scattered wildly, poppies burn like embers - red as lost passion, once soft as sleep.

Above - constellations blink ancient eyes. Below, the field breathes - a living canvas of shadow and bloom.

No footsteps mar the soil, yet the place feels visited, as if the moon itself walks barefoot among the petals.

This is not a garden. It is a spell.

A place where time folds inward, and flowers dream in languages we’ve only imagined...

I am but a portrait split with pixel lines.

A figure caught mid-death in a ghostly world...Becoming now aware that I had died...

And I see her...The one who killed me

The Living

She comes for me...I do not see her - I feel her presence...a resonant breathing in my ear

She frightens me! My guilt is consuming me.

It begins...not as sound, but a certain subtraction.

The warmth drains from the room. The air thickens, the night holds its breath. I feel her - not in my ears, not in my eyes - but in the marrow of my bones, in the way my skin prickles like a field of antennae tuned to dread.

She is an absence made present. ..pressing against my ribs. A shadow, not casting.

Thoughts stutter...something ancient and wrong is brushing against the edges of my mind, rearranging the furniture of my certainty. I know she is coming - not because I heard her, but because my world has begun to tilt. The birds have awakened. The clock ticks louder. Even my heartbeat tries to hide.

She was female...now not woman.

She is hunger shaped like revenge. An echo of a scream that sounded not like mine.

I do not see her. But I feel her approaching from the folds of the dark - an answer I dare not question.

And I know.

Not with logic, nor proof.

But with the kind of knowing in dreams and old blood.

The kind that makes me lock the door,

Though it won’t help. For...

Death comes hunting for me tonight!