The baron of apparitions drawls, the original stranger, the viper in a giftbox, the undulation behind an old moth-curtain in an empty taxidermy room. The stranger with the sweeping eyes enlivened as a glisten underneath an insomnia blanket, polished silver in a dungeon, grinning at the corners like a shedding portrait in a frozen castle. He has the sallow radiance of the wolf-moon overhead cringing into the stark lines of crow’s feet beside his unblinking set of alert, unnerving eyes; you can hardly tell that the statue-face has scant color of its own. Not when he steeples tall and dark like the shadow of a broadsword in a gravesite. He’s a pale witching mask, father gargoyle, held on by the slender fingers of fog that envelope and are drawn to him. Unmoving, yet somehow his presence seems to prickle, seems slippery, murky, oil in the heart-line of the palm, as if it is moving.
words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.