He Spoke of Death





He spoke of murder like poetry,

Of hands on hearts,

Deep inside of forbidden secrets.


He whispered words like “torture”,


And “eviscerate”

As if they were the sweetest things imaginable.


A thousand horrors roiling in my mind,

An insufferable urge to destroy,

To hurt

To inflict


Coupled with an incomparable joy

Found only

In one other.


His words were red and lush,

Covering things previously unknown

At once shadowed and enlightened;

Simultaneously brillant,

And terrible.

Absolutely beautiful.


He spoke of death like religion,

Like the last great adventure;

As some barely-concieved bit of brilliance.


He spoke of death as if he’d tasted it,

Somehow feeling my experiences through our bond,

Knowing more than me about things I’ve come so close to,

Dipped just deep enough into.


He spoke of beautiful,

Terrible things.


Of our mutual desires,

Shared nightmares

And combined promises.

 By Nick Ransom

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