A Bruised Sky

The night before I met my lover,

The sun had set behind the backdrop

of the fickle horizon

and the moon crept from the pits of hell,

shining its ghostly form

and bringing forth the deadliest of nights.

Demons of every variety,

ghouls and goblins and giants

with snarling mouths

and pitiless eyes,

bulbous noses on barking gnomes

and from the graves,

arose the undead,

skin clinging desperately

on the rotting skeletons.

The city was aflame with screams

and the air was heavily perfumed with graveyard soil

and decaying flesh.

The streets ran crimson with dried blood

and a lone child, abandoned

but not completely helpless,

cried a terrible cry

as his world crumbled in front of his undeveloped eyes.

The government sent troops,

Battle ready men and women

fed on hypocrisies and rich lies

that unsettle the stomach,

die gallantly in front of the cameras,

rigor mortis sets in

perfectly,

as they smile.

The death of night,

the sky a bruised purple,

and the portal to hell,

a wide scar on the Earth,

oozes rapidly,

demons sprouting from the pores

and a devilish cackle adding to

the cacophony of screams and moans of pain,

a symphony of suffering,

the cadence melodic,

As if each moan and groan

was harmonized, planned and practiced.

A false imitation of real pain.

The night I met my lover,

we fled,

never looking back,

with targets pinned to our back,

for we knew the truth–

the truth, the cure,

we ran from the lies

we were bottle fed from the teat.

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