Every saint has a past, every sinner a future.
The Grim Reaper
She leads me to the guillotine
down this golden path laced with silver
linings of dark clouds heavy with blood
red droplets of tears from the skies
falling like libations to fallen ancestors
sacrifice to these demons that eat our souls
predating on our spirits
that the weak seem strong, the strong seen as weak.
Dressed in black, she has a mask for a face
black mascara, eye shadow and red lipstick
she has me in a trance, eyes set on the movement of her ass
hands held firmly on her chest, heart beaten
on her knees looking up to me with eyes deep like
the shadow of the valley of death.
I am high, she is my drug
infused in fumes like burning herbs at the altar
I touch clouds, speaking with angels in
tongues only we understand.
Secondary brain in action
blood drained from my head
I cum knocking at her door
look through her window to see if anybody’s home
she lets me in
stare deep into her hallway
pictures on her wall, portraits of men long gone
lost in the maze of her charm
somebody pinch me, wake me
from this trance, dance of death with she
The Grim Reaper.
This Dark Maze of Thoughts
conjured memories of past lives
present times marred by broken clocks
stars rain down in the night
the ire of the gods
when mortals considered immortal
and immortals cursed mortal
fine lines in morality
good and evil polarity
that never sleeps