Gothic-Surrealism

Words of a world, strange though wonderful.

Bound to the Question

Bind me on your here rack.

Latches seize and stretch this filthy coat of skin,

till its shreds into marinade of hearty red.

 

The might, giving this body a form,

shall anguish

with no mercy.

 

That which belts my bones together;

must part ways in teary retreat from the other.

Put to the question I’m bound to give in.

 

How truth can be stretched from us.

Torn, declaring truths may scream

from within our wounds, peeking terrified through the slits.