Cursed In Ink

it had been some time since the walls and the joins met, but with each stride foundations were lost and flakes of misery broomed my wake the stigmata came and it was as if, my iron pen had speared my wrists someone called it writers cramp but the sanctity of the odour spoke otherwise when the green began to ooze, the hand of Esperanza rested on my forehead raking her nails telling me it was time and, that my hands had purpose one last time as each word envisioned a thousand lashes and each stanza speared my side I laid stripped of flesh each piece of flayed skin raked off to fly the wind dessicated to dust, I laid in nirvana mere moments but, falling through the hourglass I ran dry now made of chalk with each rub I am diminished to crumble and the lines grow ever obscure