Death to me is not the cessation of a heartbeat.
It is the wicked sickness that consumes me.
I flee with my heels at the wind.
Running from him with beaten feet.
Ensnared in a web of lies.
He crawls creeping continuously
Feeding on the love and peace
Manufactured in my mind.
Pincers pierce deep.
Keeping hold of my sanity
As death feeds.
Weakening my urge to fight
I am embraced
By the warm chill, of his bones.
The tender roughness of his songs
Intoxicated by visions of horrors most foul
Receiving refuge in their bowels.
I see the light in the tunnel.
But I'm planted in the dark
I bloom with death as my gardener.
Gifted with life, his nocturnal flower
