***Deceit slithers across the vessel
embracing the stench
of the "would-be carcass".
A feast bestowed by
the imminent descent
awaits to serve
the new peasant king,
whose realm
is as torrid
as the desires
that demand
his presence there.
His eternity
now rubbernecks
the obscene art
which subsists
only by gulping
feverishly on
delicious torments
and mourns
to witness the
silent testimony
of the sullied design
and preventable death.***
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
***Deceit slithers across the vessel
embracing the stench
of the "would-be carcass".
A feast bestowed by
the imminent descent
awaits to serve
the new peasant king,
whose realm
is as torrid
as the desires
that demand
his presence there.
His eternity
now rubbernecks
the obscene art
which subsists
only by gulping
feverishly on
delicious torments
and mourns
to witness the
silent testimony
of the sullied design
and preventable death.***
I desire the things
which will destroy me in the end. - Sylvia Plath.
Request permission to use this poem