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Death of the word
Tainted is the brain that leaves the foul scent of nector.
Boiling burbling delivenrece,
Only looking for nocturnal ways to sour.
The night peace, the simple quiet that obstructs the true justice of corpreal decay.
Lingering is the words that rake upon the skin of lips
peelng away memory from memory.
dividing the circumsition of birth and caressing within the spittle of every spoken word.
I am damned to think, to ponder, to lace soft carresses upon dry brittle flesh.
forever degressing , depressing.
slumping inside dark sullen corners hoping that the light never finds the reflection that dances inside the cornea.
The true lapse of reason that propels the thought forward , the reasoning under,
and by all the hands of you christ we will all die togehter
one pure feather wilting around itself.
a soft death everlasting,
penetratring.
Rotting the minerals of the ground writing compositions of decomposition.
surrendering.
our oceans of pride now tainted red and no longer dancing
instead falling foul and stagnent.
letting the life of bactereia rain upon our own deconstruction,
unravelling is the time that it takes for you to say all that is needed to be said
to fill the emptiness of a whisper
hush
for the doorman has stolen the key and we are all locked away from the grave.
__________________
~Esen
What is everyone doing in my room?
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