Dismal Decay

There are places where shadows live, hiding in the attics of forgotten places, their whispers a century old, believing they were forgotten. There is a place we often like to visit, peeled and staggered by time, nestled in the forest, overlooking a field with empty eyes. We make friends with the ghosts there. They dance around our lantern light, watching us from the corners as we breathe their dust, as we observe ourselves in abandoned mirrors where, if we look closely enough, we might be able to see them too. Sometimes we let an older darkness enter us, becoming long-clawed entities crawling up from the bowels of the earth. But as the sun sets the ghosts spread their cold limbs longer, and no one is afraid; they join us out on the grass, and together we dig graves to bury our broken pieces, watering them with blood in the night’s embrace, so when they reemerge the veil parts, and through each other we can sing. Photos featuring us both taken by Cimmerian: https://www.instagram.com/cimmerian.co/