dreadful, darling

it’s
dreadful, darling
when the air sucks
into our coffin,
and our
ancient bed becomes
a vacuum
for dust and
abhorrent, unconscionable
sunlight

it’s
disgusting, darling
how the flesh feels
of unwashed
elastic before it
breaks,
but then
ambrosia augments
upon the surface
and the veins
renounce
the sweet heat of
nectar

we’re
damned, darling
but that’s
divine, because
blood
begets plenty
of time —
and hell can’t
touch us when
we’re
steeped in our
nighttime
eternity

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

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