by peter maher
Death songs cut the wind
sliced like flesh
trembling and withered
disfigured phantoms
slip silence into an empty wound.
The night lies bleeding
peeled back and exposed
the carrion beast licks purple lips
as a corpse floats past smiling
almost awake.
The horror of solitude is a permanent wound
pulls the eyes bright white and open
flickering reality amidst
the falling light
listening for midnight to arrive.
Pale dark skin
stretched to breaking
bony fingers scrapping away the frost
the miasma of fear pervades the air
as somewhere the children listen intently
to death songs cutting the wind.

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