Ink_Whisp3rs

It'll run like blood in your veins and the breath in your lungs, as my tainted tongue whispers the tenderest of songs into your aching ears.

My mind, thought filthy as a gutter, holds the image of your visage with the greatest purity and innocence.

a labyrinth of endless corridors

tied and twisted like intestines,

as you walk the distance changes and the walls whisper,

move forwards,

right,

a little inwards,

does your tongue listen to the sound of words?

the words that come from eyes and the words that come from ears,

think.

do we need a permit to breathe?

think.

you cannot,

you will not,

you dare not.

your dreams are in control

dreams of the intestine like walls.

speak and spit it

before they shut your mouth and tie your hands.

dream because now just passed by.

your words come from your intestines, they are equally as twisted and blood stained.

you shut your eyes and still see from your skin.

the wall whispered

control.

you are a pit.

a pit of guts.

What you do not desire.

Look at them.

What you do not dare to desire.

Look at us as we are.

Look at your hand that slid past me,

around me,

across me,

throught me.

Your hand that measured me.

Hand that bled me.

I can see your skin, the words which come from ears.

You detain me for not what I am, but for what you are or for others to fear me.

Others to fear you.

Look at them then look at us again.

A confession is not a confession when signed with bent fingers.

Look at me.

My sorrowful sins fill me to the brim, staining my calloused body.

They bite me like a vicious dog, puncturing my skin, leaving a thousand teeth marks.

Without a warning bark, they sink their fangs into me deep enough to open old parts.

I fear they are my doomed destiny.

They are the reflection of my fate, the mirror of my soul.

They say there is a cancer within me - the plague of my own grief - which I carry in my blood stained hands.

I fear it will conquer me, yet my visage remains frozen still, they do not deserve to know of my fear.

The sins whisper in my ear about the greatness of my grief.

It is without doubt the greatest god I know and I am it's subject.

Blindly, following its light.

It's sneer hands tightly bound on my throat.

I am a sinner and I grief all the things I am not and all the things I could have been.

I grief the time.

The seasons pass and turn, yet nothings new.