By: Mitch Green

Sinners, saints – bone edged proficient damsels

Rebirthed reunions relishing fortified foundations of burial worship.

To sink, we embalm our bones,

Hope – it’s not our home,

Nostalgic principles of dreamscapes and saloons, dividing oceans,

Monsoons, grave lagoons.

Open up – dead man sounds; eating floorboards, wall space and barking hounds.

Stagnant silhouettes in shallow sand – convergence, contorted round, into backward faces – lit in dread.

Steadfast to wake – quaking verses

Viral fallacies proven to procreate pallid pardons of the malice in gloss houses – spouses sewn at the seam of mortal dreams.

Fiends find the promise in fractured, spatter washed mirrors;

Crooked, creepy – screaming things.

On all fours – flapping tongues

Legs lurching, wild teeth chirping,

Chatters swallowing fleshed earth.

Till all is lost and the growls are faded,

should the royals rein over the dead and spaded.

*****

Mitch Green, 25, is currently attending SNHU (Southern New Hampshire University) to acquire his BA in Creative Writing, with a minor in Screenwriting. He has written and have had published several poetic collections known as: ‘Rhymes of Sin’, ‘Godart’, ‘Paint Me Odd’, and ‘Monsters’ – which will be released later this month.