Cutting Tension with Plastic Knives

Pardon me, sir, as I intend to
split the seam —
My morbid curiosity is as relentless as a
villain in a lucid dream who uses humans
as a canvas to quench his thirst for bloodshed,
dismembering bodies and putting them back together
again for when the hearse arrives and the people wallow
in pity they’ve never experienced.
The masochism of the moment exceeds the laconic action
of the original slaying;
people simultaneously praying and screaming, “Why did it happen to him!”
as the priest calmly says, “For even those with dark hearts we must
forgive.”
The echoes of lost souls reverberate over the chorus of voices,
those constantly having something to say without saying anything
at all.
The needle used to stitch time is forever enveloped in the carnage
of our hearts, where stamps are derived from the diabolical
mixture of ashes and memories.
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