Starless Imperium

Morgan Argor Strange, Science Fiction Horror Author

New Poem: “A Blood-Drenched Bed of Stars in Blackest Igvarmord”

For whatever reason, my brain really latched onto the idea of writing poems lately. Check out my latest one, A Blood-Drenched Bed of Stars in Blackest Igvarmord.

An amusing little factoid about this one: It’s my first poem or story to pull the title from the “funeral march battle cry” at the end. In stark contrast to the “call to action” of a traditional blog post, I like to include these weird little dedications. I also think it’s funny/interesting to shatter the flow of the ending with a bunch of yelling in caps lock.

For whatever reason, I had trouble coming up with a name for this one, so I stole one of the lines from the dedication instead. It was also the inspiration for the image I made . . .

Yes, I do make all the goofy overlays myself. It’s a labor of blood and love.

Anyways, I’m pretty sure I’ve slept like 6 hours total in the past 4 days, so I can’t think of anything sensible to write. But I’ll try anyways.

I really like the way this poem (or series of poems, really) came out, but it’s not the kind of thing that needs a huge explanation. It ties into the whole “Zyklon Saga” (publishing companies would love that title) and touches on the ever-present theme of other universes.

Here’s a random note I scratched out on my phone about the whole series of stories:

“If there was another version of you that had everything you always wanted and more, would you want to know? Would you want to peer through the one-way glass of their world and witness the ugly truth that they had everything you always cried about? Or would you rather die lonely in the dark without tasting that bitter pain?”

The most sinister question of all is, “Would you make their dreamworld disappear in the blink of an eye, and force them live your miserable life . . . If it meant slipping into their skin and having everything you always wanted and more?”

I don’t have an answer, at least not right now. I’m so fucking tired . . . But it’s Friday night, or at least it will be soon–and the roads always calling, and the airwaves smell like Death . . .

Go on, don’t be afraid. Lay down on A Blood-Drenched Bed of Stars in Blackest Igvarmord.

Author Morgan Argor wearing a  purple Fogweaver shirt and Back Lipstick.

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