The crying corpse:
Putrified lips lift a swollen smile
a torment with leaning nameless clarity
Stained with a scentless stench
Evoking a distant frightful wretch.
Blood smudge mascara:
that is the sexy swan song
And if one could raise that it from forever
One would plead skyward that one could not
Being, without the flesh, is the wonderful thing.
Time ticks on
soft off-colour leather for giving warmth
eyes enduring stare
snuffling a clot
nails dripping red-fresh to the ground
with a clank
hair drifting like seed on the wind
dank cold pages come to life
can you feel me?
Pray that you will not.