Death’s Helping Hand

I’ll come up

When I’m ready.

Storms blow colder than usual

In these un-normal times.

Superstitions breed maggots

Eating the meat of dead dreams.

Fears funnel fetid breaths

Deep into the core

From which any can intend more.

We give our silly grins

To the demons that say…

‘Allow in all of your deadly sins’

Vomit Victory..I SAY!

Sacrifice Sour Gas.

Ill winds soon pass

And breath flows clear.

Indeed and in actions

Perhaps in my personal end-times

I will allow no fear!

Cheers Lorenzo