slither

"same cross, different nails"



we are prophets of gibberish
we are saints of sincerity
we are bringers of anxiety
and half-baked truth
we slither out of our shells
like ancient beings woken up
by the alarm of the suffering
caused by our dreams
every movement lethargic
cogs falling into gears
that spin without ease
of an ancient grease
their stench seeps in our skin
in our eyes and our teeth
in our hair and our eyes
and our words and our lies
they will hang up there
on the crosses and the beams
words that spill from our lips
will rust through their screams

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It's rare to be able to tap into something horrid and attempt to describe it on the page. Even failure in such an attempt is a glorious finale.