In a Pale Cringe

Mind-lashing words steep me deep into your olid casket of rancid oil, soul, my blistering sore, gangrenous from your slow simmer to break-neck boil. Pus green rupturing, your infection oozes into my core’s moaning cracks; fissures fitfully cleaved, leftovers rank, from molten hell-raising attacks. In a pale cringe, I sniffle on the putrefied edge of your furious fringe, myself, I try to throw away from the lava flow of your stoked madman's singe. Words spewing bitter spit, pinning me in place like a pitchfork’s sharpened tine, skin splitting, you stripping me to my bones, black burned in your raw acid brine. Verbiage vile you feast on, searing my sorry spirit a ragged crisped char, my emotional remains you savor, flavored of your poisonous black tar. Stew, I secretly seethe in my sour juices of pitiful pain and shame, yesterday - today - tomorrow; endlessly enduring life-swindled shell-game. I vow to see you in Hell, when I usher vengeful death to your darkened door, day of reckoning, when this shattered blue-glass-shard shadow, can take no more. Hot-branded, begrimed in your name, wounds of my being weep a diseased seep, essence; be mercifully cleansed and healed in the peace of my eternal sleep. Susan Ashley August 18, 2017 ~ Third Place ~ Contest: Unsheath Your Sword (Premiere) Sponsor: John Lawless