As deep as his bones go,
Stretch upon him like banyan prop roots,
As if devils’ eyes have emerged,
Sneaking from beneath his skin,

His body – scrawny –
Fail to hide the evil underneath,
Together they howl,
And hoot the tunes of flagellation,

Straps only he wears,
And his eyes drop,
At the proximity of a safer void,
While his teeth scrunch pyaria,

What craven!
That yells at different scales,
Gnaws preaching,
But a victim of hysteria,

The aureole behind his head,
Is made of tin and silver paint,
His guardians put it in the shelf,
Where once they blew his brain,

No, he doesn’t talk to God.

Written for Wordle#50 @ MLMM

Comment, praise, criticize? Do leave a note.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s