Death upon my soul,
the muted curdle of atrocities,
link upon link that chains me to
a society that refrains me.
It pains me,
the beating of your blackened heart,
each breath you take is a stolen
beat from the life of another,
even a brother.
You are the stain of death left behind
long after life has drained between the
cracks of enormity, a universal deformity.
Does your heart feel?
Can you comprehend a world outside
of your mottled body?
Or are you simply a puppeteers parody
lost in greys of melancholy
an ancient whisper of tainted folly.
Karen Hayward ©2016