When the ink that is left is blood
The blood of a dying man in patches of lighted darkness.
When the night whispers sweetly in solemn tongues
Lisping with the honey that comes in the dew of vinegar.
When the palms continuously drip the sap of life in tear-less confessions.
When the words I long to speak die before my eyes
Illuminated by visions of “red and red.”
When the seeds of magma seep into my soul
Deafening the pure songs of my muse.
When the deathly smell of rotting flesh tickles my nostrils
While bedding my bones.
I fall into the womb of shadows
Concealed to the “gods” but open to their “demons.”
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