As deep as his bones go,
Stretch upon him like banyan prop roots,
As if devils’ eyes have emerged,
Sneaking from beneath his skin,

His body – scrawny –
Fail to hide the evil underneath,
Together they howl,
And hoot the tunes of flagellation,

Straps only he wears,
And his eyes drop,
At the proximity of a safer void,
While his teeth scrunch pyaria,

What craven!
That yells at different scales,
Gnaws preaching,
But a victim of hysteria,

The aureole behind his head,
Is made of tin and silver paint,
His guardians put it in the shelf,
Where once they blew his brain,

No, he doesn’t talk to God.

Written for Wordle#50 @ MLMM


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