Time Of Death Poem by Joe Elmenhorst

No need for preparation, the flesh of the rejected will expire. calling on the Legion of sloth, controlled with hands on weapons young creatures subtract with violence, out of this cold world. Out of time holding minds. they use the unknown objects and claim raw organic pleasures. A body itching, burning, choking, gasping in a sexual frenzy. the memory inside a dream. Up and down and back to forth. put your hands on the table let them see the scars from the arrest. let them see what is controlling the inside of your feeble mind. let them see the violent rage of fathers and husbands drinking solvents distorting while slurring. As silents enters, thieves exit windows, room on the floor, weak soaked in sweat shivering wet, cold. The ghost of voice redundant Blackout apologies. Nor Flesh or fatty tissue, neither the ashes in the ovens will be able to fill this cavity gaping.