Monday, November 5, 2012

The Hangings

The Hangings.

The dead hung from high, mouths agape, eyes rolled, bulging, bowels split, sagging low under putrefying hot skies. Viscera leaking putrid juices dripping brown red dead rivers. Floating, crawling hordes of blood seekers, flies buzzing, landing, moving, and landing again. Always on the move touching, caressing, kissing the one love they seek, leaving their spore in every nook, every cranny. Their song loud in the midday sun, dulling the missing songs of birds long dead. Slight breezes drifting the sweet stench of death slowly North, always North, In time of summer the low lands know no better. Who are the new hangings? Be they you who know not to tread on these lands? Rest now, putrefy, leave notice to all trespassers for long, before you to turn to dust. Our lands reject you and yours, death awaits you pilgrims here.

From the ramblings.

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