Thanatos

By Diya Biswal

I crave the warm touch 

of my grave’s embrace. 

Oh, how nearly far he is

I will not be told 

for he will tell me itself

when he conceals me 

into his humble abode. 

I’ve waited long,

but not long enough. 

Perhaps he despises me 

only because he hasn’t realised 

my long for his divine decay. 

He toys with time,

a cruel god clothed

in soot and bone,

feeding on the marrow

of the overgrown.

I carve his name

on my withering heart,

each letter a wound,

each pulse torn apart.

I use the last drop

of my lush wine blood

to summon him

from the soil and mud.

He watches me rot

from behind the veil,

wings like smoke-stained velvet

and fingers pale.

He darts like a bat

through the hollows below,

carrying the hush

of a thousand souls in tow.

Ash is memory made visible,

burnt flesh blistered, unforgivable.

I wear it like a second skin,

a monument to where I’ve been.

He walks on limbs

of blackened thorn. 

His grin a gash

that will not pass.

Moths crown him

in a jewelled swarm,

my angel of the beautiful deform.

I do not scream

I offer my throat,

a garland of my spine

for him to gloat.

I’ve stitched my soul

in a blood-soaked shrine,

a prayer that reeks

of rot and brine.

And when he comes

as he must, in black,

I’ll crawl to him

with my ribs cracked.

No prayers

no holy air,

only me

and him

and the stare.

By Diya Biswal