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Angels In Death
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Dark Poetry Please, someone help me.
I’m drowning, sinking further into the smoke.
My lungs are rotting, filled with sand and ash.
My hope is waning.
The fragmented soul inside of me is decomposing, just like the flesh of my heart.
Existence is no longer worth the fight for blood.
The crimson life drips from their rusted swords.
The march to meet me, end me—and I invite the armies of loathing to seep into my wounds.
When this war is at its close I shall bear the calloused scars.
I wear the burn and blood upon my face like a bridal veil.
Staring at my reflection, I see the slow decay of time has found me.
The battered skin and bruises are now nothing more than dust.
Flesh has dissolved into absence and bone is ground to air, breathing in the wind.
No more does the breeze dote upon ivory complexions—the porcelain now shatters in the billows of invisibility.
Broken and laced with white, I choke, breaths hitched in numbness.
Feelings that cannot be felt are crawling through the rain—puddles of shame are cracked like mirrors as footsteps resound in the mud.
They come for me, with dirty armor, spears glistening in the showers of anger.
The army marches on, gathering the darkness—and the fortress shall crumble, only a dream of ruins embedded.
Somnambulate through the battle and unfazed in the aftermath, I shall rise.
Phoenix born of incinerated remains.
And though untouched by the flames…I disintegrate.
