My sister walks by my side, in the mirror floating to my left on the trail through the Wasteland. The snake dances on her beautiful skin and coils around her curvy body. My sister is dead. She is rotting in the grave. I sit in front of the fire and stare into its fire-red, dancing surface, and I scream into the dark, throw my Magick at the night.
I see the wolf pace around me. Its howl rises from my throat and into the air with the dancing embers. I hear the raven flap its wings. Its dark, invisible wings are mine. They glow in black and gray and fire. The witch wanders in the forest. I wander and the dead and their remains wander by my side. My Magick is Death Magick, like all Magick is. There are no angels, no creatures of light, but spirits in all forms and of all kinds are all around us, both living and dead. They travel in the dark, like we all do. The mirror not a mirror is an echo of everything that is, everything we are. We are the shadows of the raven, humanity’s outcasts and deep mind.
Nothing is hidden to those wandering in the darkness.
Everything is there, in the quivering air, the whispering forest. I walk backwards, and in my own steps I find myself. Three steps to the left, three jumps to the right, and the trail is no more, and only wilderness’ claws and fangs remain, and the dull knife is no more.
I make love to my dead sister in the heat of the night, and fuck her brains out on the bed of fading embers, and I feel an ecstasy greater than I have ever before felt.
In death there is life.