Poetic Endeavours Are Not Meant To Cure Us. Part 6-Howls.
I hear howling wolves growling in the gutter.
Rivers of torn flesh pour forth from the gates of sin.
Philanthropists boast with a nasal mutter.
Subliminal shrieks create a rising din.
I sit rigid in suspended animation.
Skin pulled apart by great demonic wolves.
A punishment I shall soon double in revenge.
Copyright © Daniel Corcoran | Year Posted 2010
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