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.