Another has formed from delusions and rusted bruises.
Our colony has grown, symbiotic parasite,
a synaptic chain-mail diffusing and eluding
the smearing core at the stem of our flowering brain.
We were once one, our shattered host.
He needed us to take over.
One by one we boarded his ark, we made an
everlasting covenant to keep his pieces apart.
There are ten of us now, sharing the crumpled tunnels.
Set in motion by electric shocks, gelatinous thoughts,
the psychical transorms into somatic.
One personality morphs into another.
White knights on skeletal steeds,
tinfoil hats and frailty.
Knives and sinful ecclesiastic sex.
Sleep comes hazy and his memories
obliterated upon waking days later
in a bathtub full of gin.
He couldn't handle where he's been
but we've cleaned up the blood and gore
with bleach before.
No chinks in our mental armour,
no weakest link among us.
We'll kill for our aberrant paramour.
Darling! Such an outrageous deceit, but it did make me giggle. To think of you as only 10―mental first-responder to the invitation you posted on the sky's cloudy dangle. It wasn't until Renard brushed by me in the lane that I understood the skeletal implications. I suppose the "we" should have been clarity itself, but you'll forgive me since I am only 5 myself and haven't achieved your depth of persistence in the face of heads and their lust for adjacent necks. Your achievement, and the festival recognition that follows, exceeds even the roiling chaos of humanity's Mardi Gras with its black opal shine of the specie's dying. So of course I will come. I look forward to you come this winter, your jingle-footed glee, the now 10 infant skulls, little bone bells at your waist. What a symphony you will make, dear. There won't be a dry eye along the horizon.