Garden of Time

I slit the neck of time
As the wolf, prowls the town
Carrying with him, a stench
So fowl, it rots the stone of death,
A scream, far from where I stand
Vibrates the puddle that pools
My sweat, when the wolf
Corrals my sight,
Still, clenching onto the knife
Dripping moments, onto a scorched plank,
I feel a cold tremble, rising up my spine
As the wolf backs me
Into an eclipse, swallowing the sand
Flooding out of the shattered hourglass,
And suddenly that scream, vanishes
Into the gullet of the wolf
Howling, at the echoes of the clock.

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Stain

He slowly presses open the heavy lids
Secreting the early day,
Bringing a stain
Into a hazy focus,
Filtering through the drenching fog,
He reaches out,
Brushes the brittle intruder
And finds it’s sharp stinking image,
The blur of its origin
Slowly pours into his memory
Calling him back,
To the sin of the apple,
The foul crimson grin
Upon his soul
Screams louder than the squawk
Of the perpetual mock,
Coming out from under the floorboards.