deeth's semaphore

a mood, rancid and foul
flecked with the
sickly-sweet scent of death
mortality oozes
into pores left open
to detract from pain,
pain that lingers
maligns, realigns
senses that are in stasis
due to an overload of life

those little nips and tears
in the fabric of spring's
tossed smorgasborg
are there to vent the light,
light necessary for expansion....

but sister is about again
she lurks and walzes
through the herded souls

go on with you now vixen
we gave at the office
thrice too many times
you've got your quota
leave off, take a holiday
linger elsewhere why don't ya
maybe on some road
where you can spin your cape
over shells and shards
of neglected rubble

they should have traffic lights
in the afterlife for the like of you,
ones that are always on red......