In Time

Time is irrelevant to the living dead,
But a measure by which we fall further
Into our own rotting pit,
Starved, and beaten by spiteful hands
That strikes in it’s own echo,
Bleeding moments into the forgotten,
Chasing inevitability in the closing distance
Where we find the still cock, waiting.

©DorianPoe 2015



Do you disguise in the crowd of freaks?
Hanging on the limb with the thorns
Begging for you below, dressing your corner.
Do you close the door at the knock of company?
Posing in the shadow of dread,
While they build out your home
Staining the cross you grip so close.