Acolyte



Arachnid fingers and broken nails
coiling glass and bulging ribs.
Bow to the condition
let your dead hair
 lay limp on bruised collarbones.
Open the flesh,
cold rush of adrenaline, gushing.
Swallow this interlude
deep and grateful
for I,
acolyte of death
still cast this onerous shadow.
 

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