An Autopsy

March 7, 2009
More by this author
It's been ten years since the fire went down
and left an ashy trail.

Eight since it flared in the heart of him.

Five since its final sigh.

He's spent the past four kissing painted lips, slick and ink-sharp masks,
and pressing poison fingertips into alabaster flesh.

Unresponsive, he lies
heart of granite open to the cold air.
Marbled eyes regarding a world

And without his ice cold pseudo-fire to warm him,
he has simply

: Gone Out.

Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback