Purgatory Scavengers

Angels of torment twisted my spine into piercing beaks, sculpting my fleshy grave & burying me into wasted nothing, guilt escaped the meaty cage digging through with nails & the bloodshed ink soaked the scene like stained motel sheets, torn skin is wearing thin as it gets devoured by clutching claws, edging as the stricken birth releases a cloud of ravens that spreads like dead branches; color of coal coating a prostitute’s eyelashes, stiff but then those flags mock my snatched glittering remains with cross shaped crows that scatter like bullets clapping for the resurrection.

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Intention

I despise intentions because nowadays everything is done with intention… everyone has purposes and reasons for the things they do… even good deeds! Someone who does things without a motivation is pure at heart for not planning on gaining from every action or word.