deepundergroundpoetry.com
Face Down
With the hands of the clock
starting their chimes
dawn's little rigor mortis
feeling the scalpel of the dead
face down, death to swallow
night stains at my window
trickling down my spine
knocking from the inside
starting their chimes
dawn's little rigor mortis
feeling the scalpel of the dead
face down, death to swallow
night stains at my window
trickling down my spine
knocking from the inside
Published 6th Sep 2021
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6th Sep 2021 11:24pm
7th Sep 2021 00:15am
7th Sep 2021 4:56pm
Oh the knocking from the inside, I definitely feel it along with every other line which are perfectly placed to deliver the cold emptiness of stiffening flesh in the midst of this melancholy; struggling to sleep only to be tormented by thoughts continuing into the first sign of day.
7th Sep 2021 5:10pm
