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The craving beasts of ash trees,
Huddled in their basement marquee,
Listing lowly in the hells of their own memory.
Bore from holy prisons of selfish existence,
Hypothermic in the frozen tombs of silent talk.
Wandered on beyond ignorance's icy plain,
Smearing the slow moments with stone broken feet.
Fed on the young fat of failed supervision,
Circling the drain of life's vicious cycle.
Like a roach rich with the remains
Of another poisoned bug.
Fear and trembling, the innocence lost in misery.
Swayed in circles around the slashed feast,
Slit and stilled by the claws upon a gasping wrist.
An audience obsidium, held on a dissonant note.
Of reflection and despair, violence then defeat.
Like a broken needle amid a pile of glass.
Dominated by the dog of their desire, their shame.
Smiling hollow scorn upon the pardoning pleas.
Stripped of skin and blushed with harrowing pain.
Like a pile of black tar and plucked doves,
Set softly upon scratched tile and dirty caulk.
The still pools drooled dry on its broken grid.
Flecked with feathers and the fragments of skull.
Detergent flakes dashing the face,
Like snow in the dark of a dead fire.
Like a crumpled flower, like a bruised fruit.
Creased by a panicked brow, crowned with a crust of blood.
The open eyes crushed to weeping ovals of desperation and despair.
Waning moons wavering in the flame of stinging tears.
The scream of them silenced, the call of them unreturned.
Mercy, oh thee, please relinquish me.
Not near an ear, but locked doors and boarded windows.
Shunted down a spider's hole, the bent limbs broken
To a wilted mass of cartilage and sinew.
Dead branches spilling out in the spaces between.
The soft swell of tissue through a cracked container.
The map of thoughts, flickering as the lanterns extinguish.
The rushing dark screams.
The Spiders fill the cavities like cigarettes
Between my teeth.
Black rot in the crevice of an eager mouth.
Dancing in the caverns of dead children.
Smile sticky with webs, sore with the weapons of neglect.
Raw at the corners from the entrance wounds.
Shadowed hues declaring the deliverance.
I cannot grasp the blooming of these hands.
Split skin reveals the sinew tied taunt to bone.
The flesh does not glisten, veins lie flat and still.
Muscles clump, atrophied and self-consumed.
The calluses prick through, white upon the dullness.
I pull, pry at the crippled claw with impatience.
The pinch slips, caught to the skeleton palm.
Locked to myself, trapped in hells I have wrought.