His hand first in the fire
to pot of water
the shriek tells him its ready
and he turns his head
black hair resting on
or more correctly in
sunken cheeks
hollowed eyes give way to a
shallow entry
his matter is swollen
but not dense
as a sponginess has overtaken
what once was brilliance.
He clicks whilst pointing
presumably lecturing the apathetic
cat that strolls by his window.
How he knew it was there
is beyond an explanation
I am willing to give.
His nostrils flare, perhaps at last
realizing the stench of his
inflamed flesh but not
without noticing a new scent
which had entered soundlessly.
I am quick with my work
and judging by my record
perhaps I am flawless as well.
His head still turns fully
in pursuit of a unknown
even though he'll never see
a fault due to occupation
and not to God's work.
Mines are peculiar
in their ability to endow one with
everything they could
financially want, and the inability
to enjoy it at the same time.
Well at least one of us can still live it up,
am I right?
Requieminem
2 days ago
