Sunday, January 17, 2016

Love of the Red Death

Bricked up.  Sealed in.
Your own Montresor.
Love and hate barricaded
in equal measure.

I slid in gently,
indifferent to the snap of bone.

You wore your gloom, unknowing.
Your beaked mask protruded,
limiting your vision

You stroked my inspection, 
heavy with ambergris and mint.
Your fingers were already blackened.

Gird your wall, Prospero.
Iron your gates.

I can feel the telling rash,
heated and heavy.
The infection is already within.

Find it here.

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