That billows a smokestack’s tracing reminder of that which is a thriving future’s ghost within the making.
The sparks in vain are my attempts at a delusion.
That I was ever truly in control.
The edge is blissful, the crash just a consequence of this existence I chose.
Monsters are nurtured through the bastards of malice as eventually the lash reassembles a familiar burden and cherished scar.
It used to be an accessory, now it resembles more of a crutch.
Pick your poison with your burial plot.
Last stop: another flower bedded within the stone garden’s memorial.
Worship false Gods, never lost souls and broken artists.
What used to be, are but remnants of good intentions and sorrowful regrets.
None of which is left of me.
JPR, is a southern gothic writer. His work has been published in Horror Sleaze Trash, Piker Press, Disturb The Universe, The Dope Fiend Daily, Spill The Words, Impspired Magazine and Fearless Poetry Zine.
His work is always unfiltered.
