Sacred and unclean

the emptiness of a silent mind

In the stillness,

I feel the breath of the reaper

warm on the skin around my neck

In the nothingness of a black abstract,

Tiny bubble like screens, one by one,

Moving about randomly

The little shows are my nightmares

Coming alive in my mind

The ghosts from the past,

Whose crooked nails hold deeply into my flesh

They pull heavily,

Drowning me into my bedclothes

Penance never makes the sheets white,

But stained

Over, and over

The sacred deeds would then come unclean,

For the their worth is never enough

To buy my soul from the chains of my pits

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