A Decadent Heart

Darkened, soiled, burnt. The maggots squirm in love. Felt through novel nerves, a litany betrays your senses. Inflated corpse of blood, it savours its own demise. Hollowed and enlivened, it spews poisons freely. Plain cobbles whine, tortured by the resident. A meaty bit of pain, left to lesser means. Leaves of death flutter, brilliantly coloured bits. The the hour of Hell, and the season decay. Time passes haltingly, not wanting to progress. The clocks will move, but no longer do they tock. A rhythm of solitude, a beating at the door. The caution will depart, and the flesh will descend.