Est. 2016
How to describe such a blood lust as this,
When hearing the preemptive breaking bones,
And the smell of flesh with a burning hiss,
As self-control vanishes in your moans.
As I return to some normality,
I feel very little of sense of care,
But I recall the sheer banality,
And I wish you farewell without a prayer.
A fire does burn across with a sharp hiss,
Scorching the Earth to her sacred core,
As I wandered down a burning crevice,
To meet the very flames her land did bore.
The grass had burnt to a cinder powder,
As I inhaled in the past ashen life,
The echoing laugh of fate grew louder,
And the fire took me as his wasted wife.
Sometimes one feels like a fly on it’s back, on it’s last legs, so to speak. I imagine the incessant buzzing screeches mortal turmoil, a desperate plea to cling to life. Though, of course, it is merely the turbine of wings. What would said fly, in its youthful vigour, see when viewing me? Perhaps, said fly would hear the howling of my voice, the thrashing of my limbs, both metaphorically and literally. If I howled, or buzzed, at such volume and pitch would the moon wane? Of course not! Neither the fly nor moon would care less. I would be a mild curiosity of everyday life on Earth: which is, ultimately, the cold reality. I should be human, and put the fly out of it’s misery.
