It falls all around me
Eviscera
tatters and ribbons
scaly shards of past, incalculable
and chaotic of such twisted pattern
yet pattern, nevertheless.
Hewn from all angles
ideals on the chopping block
Hacksawn and chewed
a massacre
a mordred on the loose
a spun web turned noose
fractaled pattern, spun fine
The storm sheds torrents more
Eviscera
And weak wear thin to bone
Shed tears so thick and moan
Why humanity rips into itself
wild dog-like?
images against the ebony slick walls
of a dungeon so departed
that the real is sickly left mused
not lived
Posted by Hans Andersen
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at
9:33 PM
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