Carapace

The smell of seared flesh.
My screams still rebounding,
Of f cold stone walls.
The book of Nor
Lays open before me
My eyes are glistening,
Like the offering I have professed.
The sounds of dripping from my fingertips,
Replace the screams,
As I fall to my knees
“Meine Seele ist ihres, macht damit,
‘Während Sie wünschen”.*
A hot wind blows
Though there are no windows in this crypt
A pain and agony.
Incasing,
The thalamus is but a whining puppy.
Not even the power to scream
“Let me scream, I beg of you”
It gets worse, though unbelievable,
The threshold was long ago.

I am home once more.
Will I be forgiven for my sins?
It is the dead of the night.
I enter silently, for fear of waking
I look in on my father,
Asleep, with the sheet only covering one leg.
My mother lies next to him,
Her hair pooling around her head.
I look in on my sister,
She makes barely audible mutterings in her sleep.
I look in on my dog,
Who is asleep as well,
With barely audible mutterings.
It has given me swift and silent wings.
I look in on my father and mother once more,
And hair is no longer the only thing pooling around her head.

No, never forgiven…

Carapace

ThisIsBeauty

Carbondale, United States

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