Death swallows
its mortality and spits
decay onto
wandering bodies.
Another skeleton
waltzes into the agony
that rests inside
your head.
You deploy these
riddles, then rattle
through the cities
crimson glow.
Will you become
melancholy fervor
as you fire
incessant night terrors
to your membrane,
or will insanity bill
you under a mountain
of debt,
as you continue to
pay for
the lingering threat
that refuses to retreat?
And you still beat,
For every blood puddle
produced,
blue shirts bolting
with crimson sirens
trail behind.
Body counts rise,
as your moral
soul demises
into this blood
moon sunset,
and the only possession
you clasp so dearly;
a schizophrenic harmony.