Flakes.

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Decaying memories etched into forbidden steps,

essence of sorrow seeping from torn wall coverings.

Flakes of death, drawn in through every breath.

Oh, but for the doom of glory stands here a man with a million stories.

Beelzebub whispers a melody of forgotten hues,

iridescent magnitude a walk within his shoes.

Black mist snakes the war torn ground,

but for the treason his honor has found.

Cackles of ancient lips of the night,

whispers,

screams,

squeals of sheer delight,

they come for you,

they come for your soul.

They’ve run their poisoned tongues along

the essence at your core

have feast upon your blood,

a chemical infusion of darkness,

an obsession,

they need more.

Poor ensanguined soul your spillage misses

the holy grail cup and hits instead upon the piss stained floor.

Hush!

Hear now the thudding of an ogres feet as he traipses

the dark and gloomy hallways of eternity,

singing the soft lullaby of torture.

Do you hear him? In the dead of night

deep within the shadows his howl

penetrates the dark…

he is coming for his uncollected soul.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)

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One thought on “Flakes.

  1. I hear him as if he were me.
    Wandering halls, trying to find himself.
    Trying to cross to a world misdealt.
    Trying to find a beacon, a soul.
    Trying to ease his pain, to make himself whole.
    An ogre, or soul dragged across coals.
    You decide once he comes into view.
    Take his hand, to feel him too.
    To ease his dark heart into plain view….

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