29 November, 2016

I will turn you

You will turn into a ball of mud
if you do not let me do what I’m supposed to
I want to speak in tongues
until I am Death upon your skin
And you can’t help but feel disdain
when you remember
at someone else’s expense, with extra horror,
how I cut out the sadness from your wrinkles
and sneered
while you ceased trying to remain yourself

Careful begging, dipped in your own shame
smelling of old blood
leaks out of your ears
while I watch like a rogue spy, darkened

I will turn you into something useless
If you do not dry into stone first
It’s too late anyway
You have turned your tongue too far
to ever close your mouth again
Upon your skin I complain
and sharpen knives, rusty from bile
I have no use for your adornments
for there are better things to do
than to cry over the heart of Man

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