Bedridden Bedlam

Incandescence of the typical,
I’ll just sleep alone
Tonight. Again.

Philanderer ignores my call,
I’ll reap what I sow
Tonight. Again.

I can’t shake a whore tree
And expect an angel to fall out.
It’s daubed in permafrost,
Got the flu when innocence lost.
Not even bedridden bedlam
Knows where it could be found.

So I’ll just sleep alone,
I’ll reap what I sow
Tonight. Again.

The purpose of death (A 55-fiction)

A murder of crows had enlisted their tactical skills as Death’s acolytes. Spiraling around the failed escapee decomposing on the curb. Searchlights look for the unsubtle demise of a vengeful convict. His potential victims were unknowingly spared. Karma came back around in the nick of time. Tattered black robes undulate. We cannot live without death.

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