For it is known
as the red gliding hand
wearing a leather glove
filling my body with sand.
Hitherto, a mortal cue.
I'll watch the stars
in search of signs.
The brightest light, he told me
it's in the tunnel at the end.
I didn't want to believe him
It couldn't be true
that when the clocks strike twelve
my body falls to crumbs.
Like bread with seeds
you'll spread butter over me
paint me black and
hammer my bones to a board.
Then, when the coffin lid shuts
Plunging my soul into the void
Will god lift me up?
with his red gliding hand
For now, i go...
to the mortal watch.
Where my cells no longer grow.
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
A twisted roast;
with a contorted face
of agony that most
blur just to taste.
God’s wrath beat fires
through the muscles
of impetuous liars.
Beaming pink like jewels
and impaling the fools
that build podgy prizes
of blood filled sacred pies.
Just for the masses.
Now prodding blackened fat
with a spitting adulation
caressing their tongue
on delicate tender tissue
courtesy of your virtue,
just six months and a quarter
cuz i'm just a pig who
lost life to the slaughter.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC