Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Hell-sick

So illicit, his little mind
Which once held so much
And now holds nothing at all.

He blames me for not
Finding his shallow conscience
Soon enough, leaving this
Winged fiend searching the
Earth in conceit, with only
A pitchfork to save him.

I spit,
His sweet tongue lingers
OVer my teeth, an
Unknown flavor poisons my heart
And to complete his murder,
I lie down.

Numb, he takes me to the bedlam.
Not emotional enough to
Make sense of it all, I grin, the
Past becoming real.

I float on flames of fever,
No longer real anymore.
The daughter of eve, now a ghost.

2-17-10


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Hell-sick

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