Dedman’s Morbid Mausoleum of Dark Poetry: Of Immolation and Graveyard Dirt

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“The bells toll to start this funeral procession, much too late to hear a confession as I now release you from your transgression…

The smell of graveyard dirt is sharp in the air, pungent and wet as it is turned over by my spade,
A hole six feet deep into eternal darkness is burrowed while the worms watched, laughed and played;

The location is unruffled with a hint of perplexity, known only to my disciples in feverish secrecy,
Never will you be found in this unmarked grave even as you scream for unheeded mercy ceaselessly;

This unholy ritual performed by my mortician’s hands is unwavering in its complexity and yet simple in execution,
As the air runs low in lungs that burn and sound becomes muffled in a consciousness that now comprehends this retribution;

Ponder whether the betrayal was worth the kinship that was given up, collaborations that could have been legendary,
You sold your soul to a false idol whose words sparkle like false gold that have done nothing but buy your place in my cemetery;

It is now too late as you realize your role, I warm my hands as if by lumps of coal while watching the immolation of your soul…”

Posted by Dedman

Writer for House of Tortured Souls website, Coffin Cuties & Digital Dead Magazines, Podcast Host for The Calling Hours & Owner of Slit of the Wrist Fx

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