Resting

Sharp tongue cuts flesh,
Freeing carmine river,
Possessed hands carry out task,
Furtive wretch exorcises his fluids,
Drowning,
Drowning in his own poison,
Mourners gather in masses and weep,
So sudden,
So full of life he was,
A shock,
A tragedy,
Truly a nightmare,
No,
The nightmare is now over,
He lays down to sleep for the first time.

Intimacy

Spread my thoughts
In red and pink and gray,
Share what's on my mind
In mucus on the page,
Evict this dreadful monster
From my overburdened brain,
A fine box of mahogany
Where this masterpiece is lain.

Slaughter

Gray sky of steel clings to metal-glass towers,
Choking the life from the the huddled, cold masses,
Pressed like livestock into their pens,
Gasping and sweating as they clamor and squeal,
Iron shrieks drown out the cries of the children,
Men of iron march inward, metal glints in the half-light,
A rising tide of excrement chokes those who fall,
Panicked feet trample the weak and the dying,
Desperation a miasma suffusing the air,
The copper taste of blood fills their mouths,
In a second, an instant, they shudder and fall,
Cruel metal on flesh barks out through the night,
Come morning, only the barest fingers of white,
Claw outward from the blackened, blasphemous soil,
A thousand small headstones litter their grave.

Reflection

The page isn't canvas,
Rather a purgatory,
Trapped forever in two dimensions,
Run eternal through mirrored halls.
Mocked by wicker men,
Effigies of illusory humans,
Only given life through second-hand accounts.

The first draft is trash,
But what about the mundane,
Where there is no revision,
Only the ever-present sting of regret,
A fraud,
A bootleg of a falsehood,
An illusion of a mirage,
A copy upon a copy forever.

Is it worse to be unoriginal and ignorant,
Or aware and simply unable to create.