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.)

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