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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Death · #1438309
The dead shall be born and walk this dying earth.
The dead shall rule this forsaken earth.
Being those who succumb to this enlightening rebirth.

Forever loved by all that grows in this frayed landscape.
Skeleton fireflies sparkle in their nightmarish dreamscapes.
Crimson blossoms and moldy weeds caress their septic feet.
Haunting melodies are sung, giving them illusions of being complete.

They are a caliginous stigma against the blackened sun.
Never will the grim reaper have his heart-stopping fun.
Their hearts are stagnant like a violated eyeball's excretion.
Their souls are bound and eternally seeking completion.

Love the dead, smell their rotting perfume.
Make love to them disguised in a masquerade costume.
For all that walks now is unbeating echoes in this desert land.
They move like a malignant sore, a growing festering gland.

All they touch will be so much more.
Darkness and despair will all that you adore.

Brace yourself, hear flowers crumble with each step they take.
Masturbate to their immoral essence as you partake.
Feel them kiss and take turns sexually; tainting your core.
As one huge mass of death moves within your lavish decor.

The dead will inherit this putrid heaven on earth.
Burn your bible and be part of this damned rebirth.


Aww! *Delight* Thank you Kathleen Author Icon for the award. *Heart*







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