ophellion

you have stuttered down the causeway
caterwauling, peak of lungs.
and all of your veins are god rays
choking down your bones unsung.

what good are the songs of martyrs?
are we all not fleeces wrung?
if you trip i swear your particles
will rip your blasphemed tongue.

you don't slither like the others,
you don't give away the ore.
cut your sternum just to shadow out
the deaths before.

rot, your scintillating ardor
is unmeasured greed.
bastard terrors from the attic
lapsed in treasure speed.

if you ever trace your scarshines
you may yet define your fall.
but what good is it to know the script
upon your velvet pall?