piano-flames

I sink into tar, and the bones condensed to ink call to me. I join the ancient ones in their compression. Pierced by an arrow through my heaving breast, my ribs close and draw the projectile inwards like scrabbling fingers, greedily begging for something... anything. As once a sinner and never pardoned, I feel flames creep from below me and sting through my soles, whilst I am expected to step lightly enough to leave no footprints. Surely Hans Christian Anderson would not have written it for it were not true? I must learn to sew with the Needles in my veins. I splinter like dry beechwood, and am pressed as fresh dough. My pitted skin torn and bedraggled like lace well fed upon by moths, there is little wonder that I feel searing halos burned into me. Though a halo negates a sin, of which I cannot be absolved. Mandibles take their leave, tearing flesh, leaving blood and bile in their wake, for which I am sorry. My left side reaches grotesquely, fingertips trailing styx, and I wish to be right. All right. Until what's right becomes very wrong and I am turned around once more. The curvature of my spine humbles my shoulders baring the weight of a thousand words and untruths, and my pelvis thrusts backwards, in fear of a knifes edge or a wit just as sharp. Ink and oil wraps its sickly tendrils around me, entwining my consciousness and making love to my flesh. I am encase, being, body, and bitterness. A shard of sanity could cleanse atleast a corner of my flesh, but only for a time unworthy of mention, and calls for more shards of something far too long shattered - thus; I am painted in negative space