There is no title to this work, which stems from my worst nightmare I have awoken from. Please be honest.
Ah, a pain, so sharp, behold
Its source, my mark, black and bold.
Third of marks by pen instilled,
My body, with Hellish fury filled.
My hands ravaged with disdain
Seeking to gain hold of the pain.
My hands feel no skin held fast
But rather wounds large and vast.
Alone, my eyes see the odd sight,
My hands hold an oozing dark blight.
Imagine for yourself (if you be bold),
What my hands held, what they still hold.
Feel the loose flesh in your hands
Congealing in the inked bands
Where tattoos once were, nevermore
For cursed now, marks become sores.
Open wounds, festering disgust,
What means this decaying lust?
You who gather round, unknown
Dost thou enjoy this ill sewn?
Why does the world stand still
Gazing at the lone man ill?
Salvation, I alone must find,
Lest plague hinder my flesh and mind.
Here the cursed omen halts,
Shut within an awakened vault.
2006-09-25
23:32:27
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silenceheldstill
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