Unmask

He sits alone in his polluted room.

                                Lying in wait until the orchid blooms.

                                A flash of lighting, a boom of thunder.

                                Making him wonder.                             

                                Pricking me with his thorn.

                                Making me burn.

                                I’m so worn, I can do it no longer.

                                But he insists, I cannot resist.

                                He’s so hypnotic, a narcotic.

                                I’m addicted to this affliction.

                                I wrote the book on euphoria but now the pages are frayed.

                                Filling me with disdain, a dormant rage waiting to pounce upon its prey.

                                Give me your plague, your sickness, the animal inside.

                                Must I die? His crimson stained skin tells the story of a thousand sins.

                                The murder bin is overfilling with the corpses of the many.

                                The maggots consume, the butterflies predict gloom.

                                While the spider spins his web, entrapping me in a frenzy.

                                I’m just a fly I was destined to die.

                                I can’t see, forever in denial, he’s so vile.

                                In the end it doesn’t matter.

                                Drop the dagger, he was always my master.

                                Discarded limbs and a phantom task.  

                                Time to unmask, but I can’t.

                                Don’t you see?

                                His mask is forever stitched upon me.  

Reviews

[Bear]

Dark and morose with an Edger Allen Poe feel but I see a problem, you say "He sits alone" then go on to say "Pricking me" and if you are there then he is not alone. I think you may need to rewrite and introduce yourself into the story better.
This is just spooky enough to make the hair on my arm stand :0 keep this up and people will be calling you the new Mistress of the Macabre. Dare we dance with the dead, after reading your poem I think I just did :~)

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love the raw darkness of this poem, Twiggy.. this reminds of of Jekyll and Hyde except Hyde disappears for good in this story, wearing a mask that has become permanently sewn to the skin... well-done