I am the ring in your ears,
Stinging verbal volley
In diabolic tongue.
I am the itch on your skin,
Watching you squirm
As I digest from within.
Let me tell of never-ending destination
You see, the road on which you ride
Leads to fate immense in gaze
And in your case
Let’s just say there’s no such thing as end of days
You wish to be rotten in beauty
Well you’re already halfway there
If you’re about to swim in darkness
Then how about I meet you there
Now, regrettably you’ve not served well your season
And this thing you claim to harvest will not bloom the way you want
One of falsehood and wrong should do the way past gone no treason
For I shall split you like a swine in half the time and nonchalant
I am the bile in your throat,
Thick blackened sludge
That won’t discharge until you bloody well choke.
I am the razor blade in your stool,
I am the reason you wipe front to back
For the slack I cut as thine ribbon I unspool
Is never less than desperately cruel.
Howbeit, last line of attack…
I am not.
The only truth there is
Entails you undone like a silken dress
And bloody mess the likes of which
No sponge could ever hope address
As you sit behind your nightly candles
Contemplate what lies in wait
Listen for the whispers at the grate
As these footsteps shall remain
Within your head
Until the last drop of your crude slop hath been bled
I am your penultimate breath,
Your last has been reserved.
Will leave it up to your very worst
To express the final word.
Protected by the mother of spring
And hereby cometh the fall…
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
© Copyright: Rivers of Grue™