The words blur like early-morning clouds,
They dance across the page,
Like cheerful yet raging flames devouring the arms of a cross,
Burning in sleeves of charred red-black tattoo.
Fraying yellow-white knots of ripped-out pages,
Lie in the cold ashes of their cremated paper family,
Silent mourning, ink slithering in tear-tracks,
Awaiting a similiar fate, genocide.
I watch souls die as they are drowned in a bottle,
I witness them blown away in wisps of silver smoke,
Life grinds hearts into a fine powder underfoot,
And erodes every mind.
But the ashes of my bruised and bleeding heart,
My faithless soul,
My madness-ravaged mind,
Are scattered and discarded among the pages of this book.