Dark Poetry

Shuddersome sound-*Sizzle*-*Pop*
A scream that makes no sound...
Just the hiss-
The open mouth-
No taste of blood,
only ashes.

Smoke and blood and tears congeal
and I'm not certain how I feel
and is the pain the thing that's real,
or the silence?

Flesh like silk, eyes wide as wounds,
they watch greasy red stains spreading
grizzly truth of death- not death
upon the floor and bedding

girls half his age, then wedding
them like butterflies to the pin.
The twitch, the cry, the soiling
embarassement,upon her knees, recoiling.

And do I wake from fevered dreams
to find I'm stitched right in my seams,
or is the waking just a tease
of madness?

Chaosred
(copyright 1997, Krys McKean)

The View From Here:

Nightmares...come see for yourself!