East Of The Wall Fleshmaker
A mirthsome gold; these lives you hold you’ll hide
away. The lidless casket, the guilded lining, shines in
the old light, gleams in the muted bay. These lines
have been etched in bone, carved and faded, stretched
as taut as stone. Draped across the moonlit base, a
mirrorbed reflects the faces bright in the moment, wide
and awake with fright. Seared by the scorchlight, lives
are worth we’ll trade.
We couldn’t cower too quickly. We couldn’t bear to
brave the gaze of the end. And when the creep of flames
engulf the all, you’ll swallow them whole. You’ll
intake this bile, and you’ll reap what I’ve soiled,
what you’ve sown. So have the stilted grown.
Bury me in all the filth and shame, and all the moments
filled with them. It’s all the same. I’ll give it away.
I’ll taint my flesh and you’ve naught but hell to
taste. Tear it away. The rot is palpable. The waft
escapes.
The bread we broke sustaining you. The blood, you
choked, the draining flu. No sign that anyone knew.
Gods you hunger, so tear us wide and eat your fill.
You look so tired. I couldn’t save for you some raw
meat. Your limbs are wires, but all I have for you is
thawed. You’ll get your means. You’ve earned these
seeds. Now when you salivate you’ll bleed. Drawn to the
stench of plebes who dulled their sheen to match a hope
we couldn’t feel.
This is all we are: a listless gold, the lifeless old,
frail in the moment, scared as the eyes reveal their
sheen. Be careful what you hold. The flesh has turned,
your wretch was earned. Bright in the moment, wide and
awake with fright, seared by the scorchlight, our lives
are worth we trade.
