cankerous open mouths.
dead breath like exhaust.
this is your world,
you who would not have it.
pockmarked by age
and pockmarked by plague
and a palpitating heart.
repeating pleasure as if it were a litany.
a cowl to wrap yourself in
and create a new identity.
and it's the weight of your heart
that matters
no matter how small.
and with pooling abscesses
and with enough drained blood
you could fill a new world.