Does a sinner ever wish for
A time he was a saint ?
Does he drink nights away with
Bitter regrets and unseen pain?
Dark bruises and bloodied mess
A relief. An evidence.
Some hint that there's more
Than these decaying flesh and bones.
Atonement and redemption.
Church or a temple ?
Beat my hell out of me.
Till my spirit turns to dove.
Screams and shivers asking for more.
The black ashes fog all my mirrors
While I plead for an iron grip,
On this red knife dancing in rhythm,
And scrape every inch of breath,
Till the air becomes a memory.
Strangling syllables as they fade,
While blue lips atlast bleed silence.
Large steel hammers falling, crushing
Shattered pieces into soft carpet,
On which I lay, awaiting to be stroked
And licked clean by hot red tongues,
Until I become one with myself.
YOU ARE READING
Handwritten
Poetry"Sometimes I wonder If this is how it's supposed to be Can I make a choice ? Or is it all meant to be?"...
