It is five minutes to sunrise on a chilly November night.
You approach an old, decrepit church
with a fantastic, albeit crumbling, steeple.
Stare, transfixed like a fly in the sun.
Fascinated, run your fingers across the large brass handle,
etched with muddy, rusted ivory.
Hypnotized, in awe, turn the handle and push the door.
The threshold is decaying; step with cautious purpose.
Several candles dot the cobwebbed altar; somehow they burn
dripping thick lines of wax upon the dusty floor,
like boiling drops of rain.
There are no pews.
Instead, the chapel is littered
with grand four poster beds draped in satin sheets.
Beleaguered, weary, dejected,
in search of some sanctuary, lay before the altar
and dream…
II.
A large snow covered clearing,
wherein there stands a forgotten headstone.
You open your eyes to find yourself on the ground,
sprawled beneath a looming stone angel.
In your right hand, you clutch a blade
and from your right side
you paint the fresh white snow
in a lightly rusted red.
Something dark, a shadow not your own,
sprawls threateningly over the clearing.
The sun's usual harmless yellow rays
have been eclipsed a dark black,
hidden behind the passing moon.
Straining your ears, you can hear the baying of a hungry wolf,
part of you wishing it would find you,
maybe devour what little is left.
Lonely and forgotten,
you lay wounded at the foot of your own grave.
Only you have the stifled insight to decide
whether you are still alive,
or merely a specter trapped in reality.
III.
Remnants of hope sway in the breeze
to the rhythm of another passing day.
Effigies of transformation loom
soaked in gasoline and hungry for flame.
Five minutes to sunrise,
so let us sleep forever.
Five minutes to sunrise,
and may our eyes never open.
Five minutes to sunrise,
and the nightmares can't reach us here.
Five minutes to sunrise,
be silent, you belong to me.
