The hammer of night descends with a solid thump,
waking the moon to peer blearily
from his baleful bloodshot eye.
A dieldrin sigh of sorrows moans on
a restless bending wind.
Flowers with sucking mouths, cling to flesh gone
An artist mourns...
quaint tragedy in desolation,
forsaken reclining queerly shaken.
A light rain falls, glazed eyes stare at blue-black-ceiling--
seeing nothing at all.
Long gleaming wetly red... impaled in mind,
a void chilled by venom.
Scorpions skitter away.
A light rain falls on marble flesh. Agoraphobia
in the agora?
Nothing makes sense.
What relevance is there in monuments or trees?
An artist will never speak again.
Does simplicity lie in preaching to the choir?
Perhaps it lies in a box of deteriorating flesh,
something everyone should understand.
Creeping in slivered shadows
life is uncertain,
with the leeches throbbing.
Maggots thrive on the rotten parts,
gnawing at the corners of consciousness
maggots could after all...
save a life.
Does this city have a name?
Some accursed cry?
What maniacal imagination could name this crumbling ruin.
The afterbirth of melted minarets
frosted with splinters of fractured bones
garnished with the occasional
Reeking still with the miasma of ancient blood rites
echoes of life
or some nameless horror that still haunts the night.
The cold comes in stealth, stealing in
with it's evil grin.
A light rain falls bringing with it the beginning