Cultus Sanguine
memories of blood
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nothing the next day, my nostrils assailed by the stench of decay
Dreams of dismemberment, fantasies of torture
Mopping up affords me a reminiscense of death;
Gooey bits and pieces are all that is left
Stench of rot: uplifting smell
Someone's dead or at least unwell;
What little is left smells impure;
Who did this? I'm not sure
No conscience interferes with my memories of blood;
PSI energy remains where a human once stood;
I equate its suffering with the longevity of a ghost
Who lasts the longest is who suffered the most