Pink

The stink of skin,

The vessel you call home in,

Its colour and distain,

And the clogging of veins,

All bony and thin.

 

Transcend your frail form,

Turn from the broken road.

Turn, a silhouette of solitude and silence,

In this journey forlorn.

 

Try again, my head full of smoke

Her body made of glass,

That voice I dread,

She kept me close at night,

But I was sodden in the white wash.

 

Lustrous burning black hole,

This different god,

This god is me,

Disfigured hands tearing innocent flesh,

Its tongue burning deeper,

Mind at large, how far can it see,

Desperate whispers deafen the deceitful.

Reviews

[Marc Marlon Villaflor]

Wow love this work, it is vivid, classic and captivating work :)

[A.P.Moore]

Thank you so much, also for being my first ever comment. Much appreciated.

[Marc Marlon Villaflor]

Welcome :)