Waiting On A Cross Road

Waiting on a cross road,
Cold.
My dreams in a paper bag,
And life.
Waiting for rancidity
Of horrible shape and sickly beauty.
No blindness, no clarity
And every moment as long as a life age.
A hand grips me hard,
And guides me through fields of warmth.
It whispers,
As the blindness begins to dissolve,
"Stay your beating,"
Night returns hand in hand with the cold,
A mask clatters onto the stone floor.
The deformed beauty beholds me,
Keen, piercing eyes
And a half formed smile
Skin painted with mastery
And a malice, once unveiled, unbending.
Lady Death has arrived.