Particles of death lay beneath stone, of gristle and marrow. Chiseled with, reference to. In my slippery state of being bones. Wishing I wasn't alone. Two percent bleach, with a bottle of Red. Butterflies between my teeth with a condiment of being Dead. Dressed in my best Fauntleroy, with the devil in my phone. Connecting me to my widow, beneath another stone.
Lo and behold the splinter of night from the elbow of my shrunken mind festering decay as I whup the thunder of erotica's enamel and swollen gums dripping semen from poetic ovaries falling down the well, echoing woven in my shakes of Hell lo and behold the splinter of night jumping the queen of dark's Shiloh from The Times- Picayune, 1862
Coming a whisper in shadow's arabesque. With a falsetto in a ghostly Burlesque, of shakers and dervishes. Fermenting my epitaph. Poured From a beaker's vat. On a bier of granite stone, of my weeping bones. Through the eyes of a gothic glider, with ravens tarnishing my sorrows. And Old Nick tapping, with a hickory cane. Coming a whisper in shadow's Arabesque. With a falsetto in a ghostly burlesque, of shakers and dervishes.
Slowly the curtain comes down, dark rises over catacombs and ossuaries of bones regurgitating the dialysis of my death and my intravenous dry martini awakening a moth of my piercing scream as the tallow drips my impending journey across the barren lands of COVID-19.
A fragrant scent of death calling floating above the sheets like a silken-winged moth burning with desires pouring over me with a reminder with eyes fixed upon my breath of cyanide and almonds dripping into night's oblivion a fragrant scent of death calling.
Feelings that run deep within. They escape from under my skin. Flooding out the laceration instead. The blood runs red. It drips off of my knee. I feel like it's marking me. Copious amounts rapidly gush. My body senses the rush. The wound won't mend. My pain will not end. Agony in my screams. Nothing is what it seems. Medicine isn't giving me repose. Don't bother giving me another dose.