PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It's the little urging voice that slips

Insidiously, like black oil, slick and sleek,

Into my mind, clouding it with it's

Sickeningly sweet scent.

Cloying smell of rotting blossoms

And burnt flesh, left hanging in thick ropes,

The perfume wafting there through

Still air that becomes louder, more insistent.

It claws into my chest, 

Filling my organs with sludge,

Squeezing my weakly fluttering heart,

Scraping chips of bone from inside my ribcage.

Emotions leak from glassy, blank, orbs,

Carving crystal caverns into smooth stone

As the earthquake rears it's head,

Shaking, trembling, crumbling.

Nerveless fingers grasp

For the pen lying just out of reach

Even as words fade and

All lies silent.