the greys, the blacks, and the uglies.

in visible pain

that looks down

on me now

in blood letting lesions

of dreams

shattered again

by whispering winds

where nothing

is now

as it seems

barely bespoken

but held on

-too tight-

in soft tight searing

deafness of will

screaming at windows

that seem to

hold on

to that ever paid

patron of ill

deepening thoughts

thrown at darkness

of pain

in the endless long scratching

of skin

bleeding beyond

all their reasonable doubt


deep blackened vats

carved by sin

About lifeofawillow
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