Under the peeling, floral wallpaper,
a wretched rumor of rot
begins to rewrite
the resonance in the room.
Brown cigarette stains leak,
like lurid secrets from the grave,
down the drywall surrounding me.
My words wander like pink worms,
weaving and wriggling their way
through the macabre mud,
past stiff, concrete foundations,
around ancient buried stones,
slicing dirt like swiss cheese,
shaking pillars like trees
in a windy breeze,
tickling high-beams and asking,
no, begging, them to cave in,
doubled over in a sickly sweet laughter
as we march toward our slaughter.
Oh how decay,
my decrepit old friend,
brings a smile to my face
when I realize it is all
there ever was
and all there ever is.
About the Creator
Lolly Vieira
Welcome to my writing page where I make sense of all the facets of myself.
I'm an artist of many mediums and strive to know and do better every day.
https://linktr.ee/lollyslittlelovelies
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Whispers of the Old City
In the heart of the old city, where narrow streets twisted like threads of forgotten tales, lived Mara, a young woman who had always felt a strange attachment to the stones beneath her feet. Every morning, she would walk the same path through cobblestone alleys, past shuttered windows and balconies overflowing with potted flowers, feeling as if the walls whispered secrets meant only for her.
By Reflective Stories2 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
This is hauntingly beautiful, Lolly. As a geologist, I usually look for the solid and the eternal, but your words remind me that there is a profound, raw truth in decay. The imagery of 'pink worms' weaving through the 'macabre mud' is visceral—it feels like watching the earth breathe in a way we usually try to ignore. A powerful embrace of the inevitable. Truly a masterpiece of the 'beautifully ugly'!