Stiletto Formal The Fall Of Ambrose Bierce
The smoke becomes pretentious, it’s hideous. It states the
notion that words and failures are no more. The creature’s
motives are obvious. Despite the slaughter, each breath’s
more vibrant than the last. I’m content here because I
know “Death’s a dignitary” and I will not meet him in bed.
The horses strain like inmates. They’re terrified, and
with good reason. For tonight we’re solely skin and gore.
Now fangs are pistols and I’m in line. But damn it, I will
stack them in piles until I’m called.
They come and lick my neck but with a serpents tongue,
but this pail villain is just a means and end. “Your
porcelin pierces my fragile skin, is my taste divine?
Savor this my wine.” I won’t just wait for sickles to
seize.
“This black horseman descends to his purpose. At last
language holds its meaning here, opaque words become
clear.”
Typewriter keys become our words, and shot of rifles. The
rhythm’s monumental once more, because these adjectives
are more than romantic. Come, down some bourbon one more
time so we can’t feel the ending.
Drink up! My circulation’s harsh. I won’t just wait
