Black scarfs and feathered hats

the ground is a rock
but a sponge
on which I bounce,
along strings of rubber
faint elasticity
dragged between seconds
this silent planet
my lone soul

the flowers are on the grave
the whispers of the living
black scarfs
feathered hats,
the shadows of hate
standing around your halo
in black coats and long dresses
watching the fall of the sun

Their tongues hymn empathy,
but spit darts of poison
with their feigned smiles,
the scent of your soul
the blood from your heart,
clotted within their nails
so I know,
that before the next sunrise,

shall they come after me
with shinning scythes,
under a hollow moon,
like grey hounds,
their beastly nails tearing the ground beneath
to face this heart of a dark soul
blackened by rage

the monster I have become
with every breath from my lungs
the power in my blood
the fall of a star,
into an abyss of vengeance
with the sun still after a twilight
casting a shadow of death,
over their foul faces

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