Imp

A little bit

closer now

hands clasped

frozen

fate

fixed

forward

to ward death

bent to anchor

this new muse

not yet ripened

by age

just a little pin

prick on

a pulsating vein

a mimicking God

flaunting suicide

someone somewhere

thrown blind

into the

deep black abyss

expanding the spores

of pain

these

remaining days

filled with

abstract radio waves

and long dead

pixels of

ghosts

these remaining days

standing fearless

on the heels

of the

devils

hooves

Prosers:

(finish this with one stanza in the comments)