It’s a slow march to a death camp
Crawl in with a headlamp
Squeeze so tight no sin left
Don’t take on the wrong quest

I’m certain he’s the devil
Manifested on a different level
These walls are made of metal
Head first equals peril

If I were a wave plummeting him
He’d still be able to swim

I sleep on a bed of bayonet, switchblades, and regrets
My dreams are silhouettes

Fatal convenience
Sinning seemless

Am I separate from my shadow?
Do you keep my thoughts low?
Do you know I’m fallow?
Galloping the hallow?
Tripping to the tempo!

© Delia Ross. 2022 / @poeeternal

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Thanks for stopping by my blog! xox

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