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By coujeaux Date: 2008 Mar 01 Comment on this Work [[2008.03.01.23.20.14921]] |
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Yon crumpled mass once commanded words of eyepierce majesty, epiphanic wit, cracklelaughs, First image 'pon your arrival, crusader, is this enfetused waste; how skilled are you at epitaphs? Wombsmear, feces and gutsplay cover her photogenics and these fashionable digs; how quaint, So we relocate her to understated salvation of water before her body exudes further complaint. These manuevers will heal, if only to build dogged walls 'tween the crave and inevitable; no fear, Graze a finger 'cross her carotid evidence; race, heart, churn, purge this powderburn until clear. Mercy, 'tis to some salvation, bane to souls tasked; what more could be asked were you aware? Guilty was I that night of saving you from the possession you summoned with customary despair. In the days hence, within agonies we so expertly dispense, came the query: what could you feel? Was it like watching a conception, or better yet an assumption; does such awepower hold appeal? I answered aye, if one enjoys imagery of desecrations, secretions, desperation and a willing frail, Reach, interrogators, into your seethepit neurograves to summon the grisliest moments for a tale. Seems, I believe, some are made to grieve only for the kept, whereas others have wept for loss, While still others fates hinge on the bladetruth of a syringe or chemical enwraptures that albatross. Voices in the know have said I was meant to go, meant to arrive, for you to survive, albeit stained, Of this I am sure: the way things were shall never be again; in this, for once, I win and thus gained. Noble me, what most choose to see, locksabres with a demonaic punisher wielding philosophic eye, For I think, back there at the brink, that it would have been far more heroic to sit and watch you die. 11/24/2003 |