Limbs
There is to say,
there's nothing more than devil's play.
In the throws of Hell.
Mine; at least.
I cannot bring forth more of the dismay,
the Hellish landscape that I must pray
doesn't destroy me again today.
Living; it's quite real.
We might ask.
They might ask.
You might ask me.
Where is my belief in God?
Where is my afterlife?
And I tell you I'm living it here already, the before, the current and the after.
All in a tangle, in the throws of life and all she has to offer.
I have lived the moons where there are no tomorrows.
I have lived where dawns only brought me sorrows,
food tasted of ash
and words felt meaningless and gray.
Yet somehow I am here. Here today.
No seven layers sounds agonizing to me,
no, not when the witch of days pasted still haunts within the.
The movements of others,
the movements of I.
Her haunted, withered mindset that besets the gestures that shudder in my eye.
So here you could say, the worst that might beseech me is the tearing,
the rattled form of my tattered body torn asunder.
The echo of very distance purple thunder.
A porch of gray, lit up in dark swallows of tan and blue.
Her dentured teeth, sniveling lips curled anew.
A captured child,
more than two.
A helpless husband,
and my hope no longer renewed.
Her sinister mind games,
the constant hunt.
The disheveled me,
the devil's stunt.
Panicked running;
running far.
Never closer,
never spar.
For locked away within her tightened grasp,
the truth of life and all I have.
The barricades,
the barriers
of ignorant foes.
Ones who only do so at her own boisterous throws.
The words she's assaulted, all aimed at me.
I guess I'm faltering,
I'm falling to my knees.
And when she's got me,
right where she wants me.
I dawn the sinister person,
I ought to not be.
Knives.
Guns.
Morals cast astray.
My Hell is chaos,
I cannot stray.