:::itchy joe:::

the epitome
explanation
a foretelling of sorts
laid for my eyes
of which i abhor
take ratchet
and tight
spin  round, tension
and hold for u now
come bastard
come quick
stay seated
while u beg
a ripple in fate
a turn of your neck
stay seated
white gluttony
above u i stand
and sleep...
for u darkly
in every new moon
and one for your last
as the iron hits the spoon
and with weak breath i push
the iron to the fire
and the evil which damns you
take life and expire.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::