The Night Walk
The mortal monsters rot in sleep,
Their chests convulsing, slow and deep,
Each breath a curse the dark inhales,
Each snore a bell where mercy fails.
Their dreams crawl thick with dripping gold,
With severed trust and hearts grown cold,
While shadows lick the walls in thirst
For sins rehearsed and unrehearsed.
The night itself begins to gag
On love they strangled, torn and dragged,
Its silence reeks of broken vows,
Of graves they dug and still allow.
These hours are theirs — the feeding time,
When whispered courage sharpens crime,
When pride puts on a butcher’s crown
And hunts what’s left of goodness down.
The world now bleeds beneath their tread,
With forests turned to funeral beds,
Where nature screams without a sound
And beauty’s bones rot underground.
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