Curling through the pyre of twilight
haunting fragrance alluring
where the damned still sleep
listening to the anvil rot
drawn when the reapers grin
whisper of muck phantom’s scent
like fingers dipping in carrion pot
clinging to the bowels of sin
and winsome blue
gnawing at the dead
thick as the girth of an iguana
licking marrow from the bones
unspooling the earth
on the plains of Genesis
curling through the pyre of twilight…
the seventh day







