Lying here, inside a song, it seems, inside every song I've ever read
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Written not by a bloodthirsty man, but a shock-hungry trend;
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Rags of flesh discarded on the ground,
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Eyes and ears hastily carved from heads while a frustrated surgeon searched
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For
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Something he feared he'd never find.
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The flies have long since settled on their feast,
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Breeding maggots in the eyesockets of the deceased;
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The walls and floor undulate under tiny beasts.
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Amidst the chaos and all the unclean a body lay cold, yet cared for,
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Stitched up, yet pristine.
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A bedside jar held entrails waiting to be fit inside her empty shell.
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She rested, queenlike, in this fragrant Hell,
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Her arms smooth and white, sewn to hands missing fingers.
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My gaze trembled up her delicate neck,
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And I noticed her mouth was opened wide.
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Her pale hair flowed down to the floor, brushed and clean,
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And next to several organs in glass, floated two large blue eyes.
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Footsteps trampled down stairs; he was dragging another lucky bride.
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I balled my fists, flexed my legs, and cursed my restraints,
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A bad taste left in my mouth from biting through tape.
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Trying to build the perfect woman, I see.
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How very creative... a love you can customize.
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How many donors did you volunteer?now flayed, displayed,
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And forgotten in dark corners if not for the stench they emanate?
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Am I joining the ranks?
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What part of my body will you attach to hers?
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-----------------
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The Collector Part 1: Muse
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| Light This City |
