This unendurable chill,
My (already) frozen spine,
the twitches incessant
shaking my limbs
like Autumn beaten pale leaves:
are not the result of any barbarism,
Blatantly orchestrated by mad wolves,
Wandering (in) human garbs,
Nor does this abrupt dip in temperature,
Play any role in it.
These furrows, on my overnight aged face
Aren’t the reflection of despondency,
My hopes are still alive and kicking;
Even if you’ll desecrate the gallows
With their filthy weight,
They won’t die,
They will continue to haunt you
In your assemblages,
A million candles were melted
And a million more are to come. Perhaps.
Yes! Your job is done.
The noble and feeble soul,
Will finally meet her fate:
Justice will be done.
But what about the question,
She was laid to rest with?
What about her WHY?
How will you answer that?
Yes. My job is done.
I have scrawled an intriguing compilation,
Rest in peace (Piece)!
I curse and abuse, intermittently,
My own existence and resemblance,
With this lot of impotents.
When was it alive, precisely?