The last rays of the late afternoon sun fell slanting through Ernest's window. He was lying on his couch, in a leaden, death-like slumber that, for the moment at least, was not even perturbed by the presence of Reginald Clarke.

Me
not the mask but-
the one behind it.
The one always searching,
seeking,
for answers too eluding,
escaping,
seeping through the cracks-
of consiousness and into-
my being.
Me
I am not the mask but-
the person behind it.
I have feelings,
thoughts,
expressions-
words.
I am me.
Not a doll but-
Me.

Raevynn
January 28, 2002

When I am alone in the night
The velvet darkness reminds me:
Of the whisper-soft touchof your hair,
Of the deep midnight pools of your eyes,
Of your raiment; so like the night itself;
Clinging, cloaking, shielding
With dark mirrors of illusion,
Of the jewels at your throat; jet on ivory.
The images invoked by my memory
Catalysed by the very darkness
We shared.
Your image is engraved upon my eyelids
Inescapable.
I am a prisoner of my memories,
Trapped in a glass box
Like a killing jar,

chapter removed as per the request of the author

your blood so sweet,

biting harder and waiting for an unheard scream,

drinking long and feeling your pain and agony,

holding you close and wanting you to always stay with me,

lapping at your liquid soul,

watching you turn and walk away, feeling a deep hole...

the pain anger and fear eating away inside of me,

standing, looking at your form disappear, nothing more to see,

searching what's an eternity for a place to bury my dispair,