Mortuus Terminus

You come to me
Your scabrous dress flowing
Resplendent in your mucosal glory

You waft through my portal
Akin to a sentient ground mist
Gloaming the very fibre of this place

Predatory eyes seek
Praying that the quarry is at hand
Salivating as you ponder the feast to come

It seems though
That you starve tonight

The dry dust of citrate is all you find

It dances in motes
Caught on the arctic breeze of your passing

Ferrous stains
Flensed collagen

Echoes

That is all you find

If I were there
I would watch you weeping
Remain tight-lipped
As you stand there wondering
Your face revealing your confusion

I am not

So I write this

Laughing as I finish it off

© 2009, Mosquitobyte