Sunday, 3 June 2012

The Walker

Branches creak like old bones,
starlight turns the seas to dust
and mountains ooze lumps of phlegm
whilst rivers run like puss.

Not flakes of snow but scabs
that fall from a sky of putrid skin
stretched thin as the lies you used
to pretend I didn't exist.

Without you I am not alive,
I am simply the living dead
gnawing at my own flesh, tormented
by not being good enough for you
although everyone else was.

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