How would you remember me, the king of crows and carrion? 
The flickering, waving seconds of relativity; 
a muse's metronome beading on and off in notepad-dot-tee-ex-tee. Dot eee ex ee. Hours pass like minutes pass like days, 
and we'd waste away; 
a thousand flies deep of laying on our throats to scarcely meet each other's hands.
We can-- we can! 
The wretched pile of vices caught in the trail of the purpose-built man. 

Truly! What a spectacle of guilt we are! 
dancers forbidden on the edge of our dance, until madness 
brings our touch so close 
as to taste the needles hiding in our lashes 
and to share the open-lipped, open-tipped sores of what used to be our skin.

Living in sin; living as the quiet butchers of humanity
until we're to scrape our knuckles in the dark for the leftovers of nights better spent in the company of crawling earth and wading-- dabbling-- in the distinction that is life after death pre-emptively lived on a hospital bed.

Return scene to the tick-tock, flipflop of gibberish. We're addicted to the nothingness that sands away our finer tastes, compressing our bones into our organs until we are simply a primal core.
Of hate.
Of disgust.
Of lust, and of greed;

Those yellowed things left behind until it's found
that a mask made on the world's terms will weather it.

If not an eye left of ours to stare
still behind it, limbless and choking on laughter
It'll finally be ours to wear.