deepundergroundpoetry.com
Two Fingers
Hearing the dripping from my quill's blood-red ink muscatel. Wilting the rigor of death's metamorphosis, hanging by a dream. Inhaling the ravages of my Bangers and Mash while swinging on gothic arches, with twilight's larceny with a hook and nail. Touched by the cuticle of a caul's beret. Sliding in the sluice of a scythe's ebb, as voices pay a call. As the winds fell a shadow over my temperance stone, with two fingers of Jack Frost.
Published 3rd Nov 2021
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5th Nov 2021 7:04pm
You have painted a gothic masterpiece that just flows and gushes with cold coagulated blood red ink from start to finish. It has a morbid but whimsical feel that I love! And the picture also.
5th Nov 2021 7:09pm
