Thursday, September 05, 2013


I am dying
To lick your scowling scars, you
Beautiful wounded animal
Branded in blood

I am dying
To cuddle the fierce tongue-flame, that
Singed away your peacock charm-
Scalded you so bad, black and gray
Ashes idly smoke
Where you lie

I am itching
To scratch at those scabby scars-
They itch so bad; you writhe on the floor, blindly
Clawing your way
Through it all

Grotesque though it may seem
My blood-socked eyes are impossibly, unblinkingly
Glued to the intricate etchings
On that ancient Wailing Wall
In an eerie trance-like death stare

A death-mourn escapes your cracked lips
A howl of bone-chilling proportions
Or is it my tortured lips that move?



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