Frank Gray


It is a thing of beauty, despair. Again I hear its claws, tender as they might be, slipping under my skin, tangled among my veins and heirs. It has come for me again, readying its sweet and sour venom to strike it that all so familiar place.
Tonight, when the clock strikes 12, I will be its puppet once more, a marionette to my parasitic master, ours wills and fate entwine in a chaotic cauldron.
By 7, I am gone. It is me. My venom. My claws. Ready next when his will fades. I truly am a thing o

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