No-one speaks of the son
The true pick pocket of the mind
The embezzler of certainty
Who mocks the deaf and blind
Though master keeps the throne
The aire runs the house
Faceless threat of the scare dimension
Who strung his kids and spouse
Escape never earned
No retreat, only forward
Scarring for the returned
Whipping for a coward
As mortal life is sucked
You die imagining of fairy tales
Reality smells of torture
Of crucifixion from rusty nails
Death bed made in plain sight
Implants dreams of no tomorrow
Sleep tight on pools of blood
A grave so deep and shallow.
Chris Chant Poetry 