Prone.

To a long line of shackled calls,
I run like a wild bore,
Slip in the embers you dug in my bones.
I crawl to the masscarade I once sung alone,
And you boast like a scandalous prophet of old!
That you have life and love and I gained nothing?
What humor you giggle in my breast,
A flame to the scorched morn.
To you, I beg like a low b***h
Seeking relief from the still birth of her pup.
And like a thin thread that held us,
We both wrapped it tight around our white throats,
Bleed black with a kiss one last time.
I hope you still know how to see my white box pure.
I'm a sheltered hound to your demise.