bROkED

The blood is spilling, drip, drip,

There’s a broken faucet somewhere down below,

In the basement of the house with no windows,

It looks like a punctured heart, snip, snip,

Against the paling skin the rivulets flow,

Spurting veins, writhing insipidly as strength goes,

The paint on the walls is peeling, scratch, scratch,

Creaks in the stairway, a feint howling in the ceiling,

Madness, a body forgetting itself, fading, abandoned,

The lights no longer flickering, lapse, lapse,

 Drying brains exposed, tinkered, confused with feeling,

Dusty tangled cobwebs in the corners, ugly and candid,

There’s something in the coagulating pool, splash, splash,

There in the dark with the dead insects and vermin bloated,

Submerged, leaden, skulking, heavy with its purpose,

Discarded reels of burdening memories, flash, flash,

Permeating this afterlife, like the debris floating,

On still tides, timeless, lifeless, on both sides of the surface,

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8 responses to “bROkED

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