The corpse with the rotting face

reeks in repose.

The stench of lupus,

and

eyes so glazed.

You never were

so pretty.

The days seem longer.

And I feel

all the lesser.

But after all.

But ever more.

The poison riddled cats

tossed on to the graveyard floor.

Captivating,

morose,

corrupt,

ever-so raw.

Flowers are but garnish,

The perfume of the dead.

What would she do?

A needle and thread

loops and swirls

throughout my head.

Weave your lies and misery

a sort of ill forsaken fantsy.

I thrash in horror.

The misty pounding

that inspires nothing.

My throat burns,

and the beat carries on.

It tempts me into a world in-between.

The glossy cover,

a face wrapped in shrink.

A fat splinter

(a chunk of time)

Placid, and docile.

Wrenches into my rhyme.

Reminding me

one

last time

the Dahlia is dead.