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Monday, August 17, 2009

Impropriety, Writhing Cold

Anent my watchful eyes,
A conversion to lead would appease
The deathly exhaustion perched atop my shoulders.
My frame slowly weeps
In conjunction with the warm, creeping breath
That falls rhythmically from my pale lips;
The affinity is etched upon my face
With weather and wan despair.
A disheveled soul melts into the stagnancy of a room,
Aloof and cool.
When will this waxen façade remove itself
From the life that it has inundated and oppressed?
The blood can no longer evade
The unfeeling flesh of my face,
Frozen in a commemorative plaque of Winter's solace.
White robes drape over a vast corpse;
Darkness falls over the land.

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