A thorn and wilted rose for The Apocalypse  
to linger and decay in the shadows of a herd  
biting off the throat with words inappropriate  

with the quill of a feather stuck in one's craw
on empty pages hemorrhaging worms
a bloodbath of Draconian shattered dreams  

of unconscionable lies swinging on the gallows
with fragrant child of festering embryos
to blossom in this desolate place

in death's Masquerade so sweet my cadaverous  
rushing toward conversion kissing the locust  
to linger and decay in the shadows of a herd