Upon this pedestal
a river of
spit and blood
slowly dribbles down,
pooling before the feet
of my supplicants;
shades of apparitions;
jealous of the flesh
on my bones...
Bones they'd love to
arrange into a
clanking wind-chime;
Flesh they'd love to
boil into
some meaty stew.
Yet they are held back,
for a lack of being
corporeal,
their hands unable to
physically magnify themselves
against me.
And thus these wraiths
bow their vacant eyes low
to the floor;
displaying feigned reverence.
[21:29|04.9.011] ©c.thomas.carter
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