Wednesday, March 10, 2010



I hear his voice inside my head.
I count the dried stains on the bed.
The sounds and stains begin to blend.
I'm drugged, unable to defend
or to repeat the things he's said.

My walls are white, his whisper's red.
There's blood to spill and flesh to shred,
grave rituals we must attend.

His is the voice

that no man hears but all men dread.
Eventually the sound will spread.
He keeps insisting I depend
on him alone, my only friend.
He leads; I follow; needle; thread.
I heed his voice.

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