static blur

my infinitesimal grasp on what is
screams blaring sirens of all
creator creation creating my translation
of not just the macabre
maggots crawl through the mind of a killer
the throat that I have
gargling the essence of rot
fertilizer born of my hands
blood in the gutter and strands from sparks
butterflies have spots that aren't always perfect circles
my pistol as a child took what can't be given back
self defense doesn't have care for the spirit
hating hate with hatred blocking the gates of fate
then the killer one day sleeps no more
as a static blur of a whore seeking forgiveness
for the final gasp chants nevermore

Poem by:
M.E.L.

(accompanied painting entitled Ax Too Big Trees Too Small also by M.E.L.)