the king of decay.

haven't you seen?
haven't you heard?
skin melts and drips off flesh like candle wax and leaves no tracks to follow.
laughter, such laughter, silent and rotten as tears of skin fall down, no glimmer or sparkle but the sludge like misery. eyes shut closed and when they open they squeak, the oil of blood long since lost in a mind full of nothing but a choice- on or off.
or perhaps, both.

can you make a spine out of chain, lace your ribs with carborateur fluid? another boy might have grown blossoms on his face, but that is not the place, not the story, for a mechanical boy with no throne in nature.
this one drowns in the city smoke, chasing after a phoenix flame long since put out.

skin melts and drips off flesh like candle wax, and leaves no tracks to follow.
he smiles in his decay, flesh slowly rotting and fading to perspiration-blue-coolant-liquid he no longer needs. there is a hum to him, of delight or perhaps simple existence.
he rots, and as he rots he begins to run. his hair is silicon thread, each tip a bright light of a radioactive blue. the metal welded upon his head, sharpened in every carbon-steel spire. as he rots what is now his ashes lay at his feet, still smouldering.
there is a smoulder upon his face, and he lets his eyes become the cameras they are, all metal and electric and black as night.

skin melts and drips off metal like candle wax, and leaves no tracks to follow.
he is born again in the organic ashes of a broken boy.
they say, so they say,
the king's reign will last eternal.