The One That’s Hanging

Blind, with an overpowered sense of smell,

The one that feeds on the diseased.

Sliding in and out the gates of mental health,

Recycling flesh from the depressed and deceased.

The worm, a gargantuan behemoth,

An omnipresent filter of the lost.

Endlessly seeking the scent of suffering,

Transference of feeling at energies cost.

So the child in the trees, that one that is hanging,

The one that’s dripping wet with remorse,

That sways listlessly in the torrential rain,

With the seductive scent of suicide dispersed,

Attracts the sightless hungering mouth,

Who surfaces from the Earth to be fed,

Whose bloated body consumes her corpse,

Satisfied, swallowing the saddest of the dead.

The casualties caused by tormented minds,

The sick, the unstable, the neurotic and depressed.

The casualties consumed by the careless and blind,

Basted unwittingly in the flavors of distress.

The one that’s hanging and dead in the trees,

The tantalizing sadness that floats on the breeze.

The one who gorges on those passions released,

The final transference, Flesh and Feeling, it Eats.


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