A corpse, a rotting heap of flesh
Bathetic atrophy illuminated in the glittering orb, a celestial body far more wondrous than you or I
Grazed her arm gently and felt dead cells from my hands-- disgusting and frozen from the witching hour's chokehold-- latching onto her beautiful ghostlike skin
Hidden rot, concealing decay, senescence of body and soul
I wonder if she sees herself reflected in me as I see in her
Wonder if she sees the skeleton I have become
Reading poems, Tennyson-- classic yet not quite tired
(Her eyes are homes of silent prayer)
How cruel to honor someone with a story of your own faith
(Nor other thought her mind admits)
Skipping lines, scanning text, scavenging for private meaning in mass-produced, printed pages --
(But, he was dead, and there he sits)
Cloned ink and robot footnotes, programmed for a purpose, to incite some kind of predetermined reaction
(And he that brought him back is there)
Can smell an onslaught brewing, torrential downpour
Her hair sticks to her face and I think I can see her skin melting away, snaking across her features
Think I can see her fading into a ghost
She is beyond me
She is incorporeal
YOU ARE READING
~
De Todolame stream of consciousness thing (i have been writing about this nonexistent girl who i am somehow in love with or something who knows)
