The View from the Afternoon ...

Another throwback, written when I believed my uncle's M.D. was going to take his life:

That bitch is in the room.
She encircles the
area like a
veil of
uncertainty wrapped in
maniacal laughter
so thick that
breathing her feels like
snorting soup.

She
so insidious
unravels her scroll
whilst the foul
stench of
living
death
billows out like
souls
from smoked-out tenements
razed in hopes of
reaching heaven
by way of fire.

Obsidian eyes
devoid of
breath
navigate deftly
souls of
unbelievers
not knowing how one
decrepit
beautiful seductress
drove destiny's chariot
and
held Hell's key.

Slight fingers
white as
the ash of
martyrs
point
pull
prove too much
for the wail
of the weak
wishing to
begin anew.

You can
taste
her bitter
defiant
indifference
in the soot
of the hole
she burns
in your eyes.

That bitch
always wins.