Your lips grotesque, oozing black words.
Strange atonement for the necromancers,
dancing a claustrophobic dance.
Fierce laughter, forced masquerade, you
are the quicksand, I the grieving lunatic.
Black flowers beckon the weary soul,
an immovable sinner, gullible fool.
The heart palpitates a wish of defiant
countermeasures, and deathly beautiful
in its way.
The knife slashes the manic state of mind
inspiring cracks in the sky, as the blood
of rain comes down, and washes away
your sin.
Silence feeds on the emptiness until it
becomes a gentle melancholy of confusion.
Concept without meaning, colors scintillating
into the ether as they are slowly drained
of the essence of being.
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