If Dying was an art in decline, I would pick it up,
But like everything else, I would do it with dread,
Fear, supple its derangement, I would want a cup,
Caramelised syrup of my blood, into your head,
I would inject, spirits of salts, to soothe you,
To see you turn into and onto the creature I have,
Become. I despise leaving, an alive, disturbed you,
It will spit you out, munching on you, keen to have,
Your eyes, your ears, your nose, then your tongue,
Unearthing your tongue off your abode, It will,
You will, on a pile of reeking structures that strung,
Once, deepest red melodies justly did overfill,
The streets of light and royal azalea. She would,
Write, despite the fight with the bright, white knight,
He would weep, weep beside the stone that would,
Hold his shining light, buried under the chasmic night.
“You, you killed my son”, she screams, screeching,
The desolate expanse of serenity isn’t innocent, she,
Did murder, blood on all her hands, she left hers dripping,
While a man of desperate passion leverages the intellectual,
Later dethroned and then provided an apology with, he,
Would live, his massacre outlives, both represented, graphical.
“They’re here, they are here”, I hear, and I try, I try,
To leap forward as they had yesterday asked me to,
But here they were, catching hold of me, of my cry,
Of my sister, not her mister, they would later hand us to,
The sweltering heat of life, the final act of it all,
But before it all, there I was, torn, scavenged upon,
And there she was, lifeless, torched with violence,
No, torched by meaningless hatred, here we lay on,
No one, to bear these petrified embraces, this violence,
Upon justice, spares the predator, we were not the prey,
But what was required for their continual corrupt prancing.
Yet then again, here I was, dicing my fingers, licking off me,
The pungent stench of who I truly had become, I was not,
I am not the culprit you make me out to be, tell them not me,
It is not me; it is not I, I promised him I would leave not,
A year without intending to send three words that are capable,
He told me so, he felt alright, the flowers I weave made him so,
Was he flattering me? Why? I wouldn’t want him be incapable,
But I painted him myself! I had seen him alright, I did, but go,
Go away, the bearings have hired themselves rigid, turgid even,
It wouldn’t budge, for, unlike this lover, they are never mistaken!