City lights resemble the chair you burned
ten years ago when she was strapped to it,
bound and gagged with a spark in her smile,
and spring air is colder than usual.
From behind this window, midnight looks still
as black cars pass slowly in the distance
like a funeral procession to Hell
searching for the glow of a neon sign.
God made voices only for screaming, but
the sound of hers will not leave you alone.
Innocence has been out of style since
the last crow summoned the first puncture wound.
Eyes that used to be streaked with shades of red
have both become ashes in the corner.
Sins were almost pure and forgivable,
but now they just summon the wrath of God.
The scent of her stale perfume spins throughout
the room, or maybe only through your mind.
You can still taste the iron in her blood
which haunts the depths of your esophagus.
Images of stapled lips blur your view,
flashing rapidly as you suffocate
while pacing back and forth, trying to breathe,
but toxic guilt will follow you to death.
Sunrise resembles the cross that you burned
above her head as a symbol of hope,
but love has always slept in a casket,
and it's bones cannot be resurrected. |
Submission Name: The Taste Of Iron
