Ephialtes

By Devin Aceton

Wails spilled from tethering walls, 

They seem spent. 

Lost in the sage greens – I, 

Surrounded in the mist of the past. 

Someone bellows for help; my feet must’ve grown roots. 

Vision impaired, my knees buckling, 

The spirits seem to pull me in, tumultuous 

Like the ocean that abandons its coast for the tsunami. 

This voice of mine looks to have lost life, 

Who do I call for, and where,

For I remain unaware of the whereabouts of this nightmare? 

Crimson trails down the wall, the paintings have gained breath.

Creaking is the armchair, but life in it still. 

What horror, the house seemed— is alive, 

And it weeps for the loss of its beloved. 

The tips of my moist fingers seem to stink,

So does the house unknown. 

Squelch —as though hemoglobin— echoes all over.

The sagging bosom of the man is salient,

Missing is his heart, since awhile; a long while. 

His mouth agape, ghost of his scream lingering,

On chapped and blue lips, not a trace of warmth. 

Bare fingers, fresh and bloody, 

Nowhere to be seen were its blanket– his nails.

The sockets empty and aghast, as though vision still intact,

Auburn orbs play at his feet. 

Plasma leaves trail down the cheekbones, 

Nerves reaching out to him. 

Scavengers feast on what seems, 

His joints, stomach, and thighs,

The lungs, however, untouched, are black and charred.

The man, once alive, remains naked and dead. 

Skin of his drapes the walls, 

Hence, the scarlet tears. 

The painting—now much familiar—trembles convulsively,

All his elements are in mourning. 

Whimpers escape me.

“Father?”

By Devin Aceton