Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And I have wished for sharks in this lost at sea.
My skin peeled back to bone, are we born like this, forged again in the honesty of dragons?
Life is not a choice. Death is buried with the boxes. I count its intimacy in raindrops.
On days like this I would surrender to the fall of familiar fever. Overrun with shaking, heart racing, sweat dripping.
Even now I taste it on my lips.
Hell is patient. Spike another drink. Deal the drugs of madness.
Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And deep underground, a self prescribed king double drums and dreams of quarantine.
©2017 jac fosyth