Septic

His face etched through the frequencies of
time.
Blood blotched him in soil.
Forged fingers of reconciliation moulded his
quivered lip.
Eyes rolled to god watching him roasting on
a twisted spit.
His stomach was empty only listening.
His spirit crawls over his shoulder, looks
through his eyes, waiting for a dormant
surprise.
Then it slides returning into the desolate
inferno ravaging the living flesh it swallowed
through its eyes.
His whole body shuddered the latent visit.
His spirit cursed his teeth and the witch of
feet squashed his spherical sole into a hole.
Septic!
All that was left was his right to death.
But his spirit wouldn't have it.
And when it did come, he spat! at it.

April 2019