The pallid figure lies in a white room devoid of any color, except for his back,
lesioned with purple kisses from a dark-winged angel.
The virus circulates in a sporadic pattern.
Every cell desperately trying to reclaim a vein, a pore- something.
Like singed roots in ashen soil, a body deprived
starts to fail.
The figure gasping for air, chokes on pure breath
and the room turns black.
No comments:
Post a Comment