Haggard

words seem sharp, cutting haggard veins hitherto pulsing the scarlet sap,
which violently exposed becomes loathsom clot, pathetic remnant of vulcanic drop,
confronting wrath through denial and self-destruction - masochistic despondency,
idiotically vain, metamorphosing grains of language into interior bewailing, lugubrious fantasy...
keeps bleeding, the torrent is inceasable, more grievous with every notch and scream,
abolishing the early embrace of lashes harbouring the awareness which follows a tormentuous dream,
yet lurid cold reality becomes the dreadful nightmare of her unavailing endeavour,
she finds it hard to quench her thirst as every drop becomes a tear and the scorched throat still sore.
eternal expectation has proven her patient wisdom, yet triggered insanity by waiting a never
and now she faces two sarcastic replicas- the blade or the bullet- which one is more clever?
the solace of polthronery is the general tendance of whispers , but have they ever worn her fetid skin?
enduring the slash of the feeble fibre, sniffing the odour of living putrefaction through lies and through sin?
guilt for losing innocence, naively hankering its sweet revival in order to outshine the guilt,
remembering a purple rose within the wormeaten pages of her bible - a sacred confession concealing the filth.
the words have been drained from her trembling lips but still linger within her memory,
remembrances are like voices keep humming the mesmerising lullaby- the hymn of her savagery,
bitterness covers her countenance, hinders aproach and touches the edge,
while her pathetical blindeness towards hypocrisy hankers revenge
omnia vanitas...the soul itself a void, brittle dust in the breeze of ephemera
haggard within the pallor of the shell... termites devoured voraciously the stamina
she wonders...oh how she wonders every night through the insomniac scourging,
whether the voices will ever cease or keep reminding mockery, hysterically singing...