Torn

Blistered flesh hides
under death’s disguise.
This black cloak
draped over my carcass
is full of iniquity,
still I grasp tighter,
forging a deal
with the moon’s concubine
to forever suffer
within her grave.
Torn, I’ve allowed
time’s martyr to torture
my soul, defile my mind.
My tainted hands reach
for the Queen of Darkness,
begging for purification.

© 2023 Rena Aliston. All rights reserved.