fiction and poetry

Macabre

A sky sculpted of silence,
At behest of a voiceless cry,
Somebody awaits my hymns again.

My tongue swirls itself :
A snake bathing in the burning blood.

The same nightmare again,
Where my veins smell of dead flowers.

The eyes turn into a vehement dark pond.
A feast of wingless ravens, slowly eating themselves to death :
My heart wasn’t that useful anyways.

Come close today , Stay.
Taste this macabre
Lick it of my lips

SB

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