the fog has descended upon the world

I’m blinded

I scribble through life

with a pen from years ago

I live alone, with a poem

written on a piece of paper

that came back to life from the netherworld

a ballet of pain flashes every night under my eyelids

with the sharp edges

of smoke and alcohols

my knees are like cornerstones

all scorched and carefully chiseled

a parchment for the future

every day, I make love to innocent virgins

I sin inside tepid sheets

I let their bodies shred my aura away

their venom trickles into my veins

it rises, and overflows, and ripens

like an effervescent pus

a metastasis hanging hesitantly between the past and the future

the fog has descended upon the world

I feel the earth sucking me in

and the sky doesn’t fit between my hands anymore

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.