Cultus Sanguine Memories Of Blood
I awake remembering
nothing the next day,
my nostrils assailed
by the stench of decay
Dreams of dismemberment,
fantasies of torture
Mopping up affords me a
reminiscense of death;
Gooey bits and pieces
are all that is left
Stench of rot: uplifting smell
Someone's dead or at least unwell;
What little is left smells impure;
Who did this? I'm not sure
No conscience interferes with
my memories of blood;
PSI energy remains
where a human once stood;
I equate its suffering with
the longevity of a ghost
Who lasts the longest
is who suffered the most
