Tuesday, January 25, 2011

The Master Of His Death.

I’ve seen you filter through the clouds;
Like shards of glass falling.
I’ve felt you cut my skin with your light



Come closer now….closer…closer
To kiss me….To touch me…To hurt me



The song you carry in your eyes doesn’t want me;
The colour in your soul doesn’t see me
The blood in your veins doesn’t love me
Your voice no longer calls me.



Sitting in the corner of my room,
Knowing that death is his doom,
I kiss him one last time with my timid frozen lips.



As the gas can graciously falls to my fingertips,
I hold up the matches in my hand and stare.
His eyes begging for mercy but yet I don’t care.



A slight mysterious smile carved into my face,
As screams of terror and pain fill this place;
His survival crumbles in disillusion
As the black smoke and fire become an infusion.



His malfunctioning lungs slowly ceases;
Drawing breaths rapidly his voice deceases
As blasphemous flames beckon his skin like a roast.



The air fills burned, charred aroma, the smell of rotten compost,
He gurgles out “save me” from his tainted breat
h;
Right before he meets the master of his death.

1 comment:

Myne Whitman said...

You really write well!