Swallowed by the jaw of a cold October,
against the bone, with a scent of pine tar,
cutting through the wax.
With a breath of the worms, pinned to the
sheets, buried deep, trapped in obsession
of carnal alchemy.
Where the rot meets the marrow of the dead,
in a shallow grave, tasting the frost of a
forgotten name.
With a slow drip from the guttering candle,
sealing my fate, in the fallen leaves with a
sting of the needle.
Numbing the pulse, until the blood runs black,
with a scent of pine tar, cutting through the
wax.
Inhaling the lint of hypocrisy, beneath the
fingers of the nails, in my portmanteau of
mahogany.
Hi Atticus
How are you. Hope you are keeping yourself warm.
Jessy Jacob