MiserereA Poem by Dalton
Suicide looms in the residue
of steel parts, may it uncoil the tethered barrel of my heart. The must of mortem lies in the chamber dark. "This magazine sings for thou"; I hark. A ripe mirage taunts me at the pew. By god I do nothing and by Nothing I'm new. O, skin peeled back, flesh of a fruit free to rot. O, instinct interred, ferments and molds the end sought. I'd put on the safety for this plan that I forge, but all ends in enmity for the self that I gorge. Minus the garnish of honour, I digest the harakiri. O, if only this modern meal were a mere miserere. Here is the magic of malaise which fires a spell of swarming flies. It summons the nausea which plots the road where pathos dies. © 2016 DaltonFeatured Review
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