Winged Razorblades
The taste of ash lingers,
As my cigarette burns to oblivion,
Leaving nothing but the scent,
Of a past that is exhaled into the wind,
The clockâs ticks are a stream of bullets,
Bouncing on the cheap plywood walls,
That pierces not only my flesh,
But also the folds of my fragile sanity,
I scream into the abyss that surrounds,
The four corners of my bed,
And yet no sound is heard,
Only the crackle of my veins as they burst,
My eyes weep blood tears,
Scarlet droplets that stain my cheek,
And paint my covers with sorrow,
Coating my very soul with torment,
The shadows creep closer upon me,
Dragging with them the silent revelries,
Of a past that needs to remain dead,
And buried in the graveyard of my memory,
posted by Ben Bulac @ 7:44 AM
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