Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Living Death


They stand in line
waiting for me
Hoping I'll pick them
out of the crowd.
And I do.
I do.
Again and again.
The same face.
The same place.
They are the waking
dead, and I live inside
their rotting flesh.
Happy for their
gloss-eyed attention.
Their drool is gold
to me. The blood from
their eyes an
intoxicating spirit.
When one ambles away,
dripping flesh in my wake,
I point, and another raises
its bruised and wanting
eyes; ready to engulf
what's left of me.

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