The touch that lingers,
A deaths grip of fingers
Upon my flesh and being.
Eyes no longer seeing.
The cold, the dark.
So deep and stark...

the Black.. black... black...
The only sound the to be heard is clack ..clack...
Of high heels on crack...
The only sight to see is of a body stretched on the rack...

Muscles and tendons extended,
No normal way for a body to be bended...

The wip's swipe, cleaving
Into flesh..clean slate we wipe in it's leaving...

© Joleen