I’m best friends with
the flies awaiting your death;
we’re united through a common goal
and we pine for the time
when solid hate sublimes
and becomes the last breath
of your lungless soul.
No need for remorse.
No use for discourse.
The edge of metal silently
plays a symphonic fleshy score
as I watch your wounds smile at me
and whisper pleas for more.
With each just thrust of Sekhmet’s blade
scorpions infect and you scream in pain
prayers of hope to all known holy names
whose throats I’ve cut
and thrones I’ve claimed.
Like slicing thumbs on Bible verse
you stuff your bread crumbs in the hearse
hoping someday to return.
But like a carpenter who never came
your tearless fate remains the same
Lord of the Worms in your grave.
Such a sweet, forgotten stain.
