12.10.08

Blood on the canvas - a poem

Yet I lay nearly dead,
Incapable of being roused,
A fascimile of former self,
So little inhabits this shell.

...To whom do I owe this gift of not?

A sibling in sin to sink your teeth in,
Rendered flesh from weakened bones,
A smacking of the lips, A smattering of tombs.

...Do ghouls still ponder my curious symmetry?

The horizon is an orgy of green fire,
Where flames eat from calloused palms,
Yet I lay nearly dead,
Incapable of being roused.

- Randy Young / Sept.24/2008

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