Beneath the serpent's fang
Unnerving thoughts race with
great speed inside this cranium. Ricocheting back and forth against
the grey matter painted walls they
are encased in.
Extorting cracks to erupt on
great wings of disparity.
These dilated crags still grip the
bars of sight in desperate frailty.
They are cursed by an offensive
scene whose animation is profane.
This armor, worn and torn.
Bruised by war's asperity.
Unrighteously, I play death's
melody with a nefarious instrument, expelling bullets mingled with wasted souls which groan and moan with timeless enmity against me.
Upon the skull pile, my boot rests.
O how unlucky I am to be
the Reaper's scythe.
To fornicate with a fate that is deathless.
Helmets busted from close proximity explosions.
Dust clogs my lungs like old machinery backed up with bones and excessively rusted cogs.
These cuts are opened floodgates.
They warrant an escape for this
blood, polluted by the fumes of strife.
Wretchedly marinating this earth.
Seeping and flowing richly like