The Piecemeal Man (abmann) wrote,
The Piecemeal Man

  • Mood:

Vagrant Dead

The wandering dead,
decaying flesh
and sagging morals
slouching toward
fear. Procuring
a life unassailed by wont
and singular desire by leaving
the tiresome grip
of dirt.

Stalking unathletic
virgins, the slayer
of vagabond lust is itself
loose virtue. Unethical
traps of semen and
pooling skin enforce
its travesty- it is like
the broken hinges of pine doors;
rebuking entry but toying
with the mind to the tipping point
of unencumbered stupidity.

Rotting. Rotting. Rotting
a mind away, thinking
only of air - broken
neurons and easily punctured skin;
a weak thing uneasy with motion,
dismembered by the wind.
Shambling for a return to ash, dust
and earth.
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