deepundergroundpoetry.com
Jilted Fungus - with Everavalon
"God didn't make little green apples..."
Like a jilted fungus, a shadow of "khaki
insipid" the fog hung over the city like
parasites. A grog haunting cobblestones
drowning out gaslights as an undertaker
applying mascara to mannequins as the
pendulum rang thrice like a scythe
peeling the mites and scabs of decadency
The perpetual rawness of uncut manipulations.
Standing ovations as death softly sighs. Prying
perspirations while we wade through the molten
shoal of schism. Wisdom in flashes; mere ashes
where our tears once dried. A mindless wallow
inset in the stone ‘neath my gait. My fate, as the
pendulum slows; stings sultry like a shiv. “He lives…”
Swathing through the billows; the reaper’s creeping.
Obtrusive stagnation; a recipe for death
Like a jilted fungus, a shadow of "khaki
insipid" the fog hung over the city like
parasites. A grog haunting cobblestones
drowning out gaslights as an undertaker
applying mascara to mannequins as the
pendulum rang thrice like a scythe
peeling the mites and scabs of decadency
The perpetual rawness of uncut manipulations.
Standing ovations as death softly sighs. Prying
perspirations while we wade through the molten
shoal of schism. Wisdom in flashes; mere ashes
where our tears once dried. A mindless wallow
inset in the stone ‘neath my gait. My fate, as the
pendulum slows; stings sultry like a shiv. “He lives…”
Swathing through the billows; the reaper’s creeping.
Obtrusive stagnation; a recipe for death
Published 1st Sep 2024
Author's Note
It doesn't go well with truffles. Thank you Everavalon for splashing the ink.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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1st Sep 2024 4:22pm
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