FLOWERS OF FUNGUS ON THE UNDEAD
IDK WHAT’S THIS: _miss A.
FLOWERS OF FUNGUS ON THE UNDEAD
-Glitch-
She lies there, like ever, and can’t hear me ring the bell
She lies there, aware of me, yet unaware of my entry
Nor could she figure out my leaving, I guess, but she knows
I am here, or I’ve been here, or I just left here
But whenever she looks into my eyes, I don’t know
What that is? Hatred, sympathy, pain, or vengeance
For she lies here on the mercy of my own
And I don’t know who I am to disagree
Yet this little woman doesn’t know,
Whose hands she had fallen on. Mercy? Beg dear!
But she just won’t.
The things that I bestow on her, why accept?
Is that a challenge?
I don’t get into this insight of torture
But I guess you love pain yourself.
Must be the reason why I can’t sense of the disgrace I cause
No hint of any guilt.
She would die soon, or is she dead now
In the beginning it was fun, now it’s different
She has gone white, her honey tone skin not even pale
It’s white and it’s her, so unknown
Chained above her head, frost covering her eyelids
The only color I could see, are from her wounds slit open
The fresh red, the crimson and the almost black
Trailing in patterns of the snowflakes and freezing by
This has started to get scary, far away from the distortions
But she doesn’t die on me. No sweet dreams for her
Still the peace, has to wait a bit more
I could see her scars from the little she is wearing
And today is particularly is a colder day
Cold with all the blossoms I see on her
Fungus on her wounds has small flowers growing
What parasite is it? Like soft wool, so soft like snow
Or a pastry or a marshmallow, I don’t know what exactly
Colored from soft buttery- yellow like the cotton candy
To the soft pinks of the water lilies, some spiked like the cacti
I don’t know what kind of a sign is that?
The blossoming of a flower has been always associated
With love, fragility, life and beauty, and all that she already is
But the fungus only grows on the dead while it’s decomposing
And she is very much undead, I know because she stills howls back
When she dart her eyes into me and smirks as if I am losing
Her lips dried out, still pinks somewhere, blurred
Sugar coated petals of skin, telling needs some nutrition
And she doesn’t complain.
It’s been a while now, and her flowers of fungus have grown
Big and so delicate waving with the wind like the plants
We see under the waters, beautiful on the slick of blood
The parasite dug the roots wherein, holding the wound
Dead but yet like the doctor’s stitch to hold it up
And here I am, feeding her myself,
As delicate as her, as strong as her
What kind of devilish energy does she hold? So unknown!
I take a knife out and cut out all the flowers
Leaving a goddess with flowers covering her body
In a blood bath, the appearance she looks most humane in
No screams, she must not feel anything
Lying there, a piece of vile artistry
My lady; pretty, pretty, pretty.
-Glitch-
( As interpreted by some human male existence unknown.)
My lady, pretty, pretty, pretty <3
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