Stench
From the blackened gates
I wondered past,
Bloodied umbilical cord behind,
Stepping into a clouded canopy
Of promised offerings of flaking bread and strong-willed wine,
Of warm accepting arms of soft holy flesh.
The clumps of mist are unable to cloud my swamp-swollen eyes
For I’ve seen these many moons before,
The utopia fades and the gold gives way to puke,
under the folding flows of fabric upon angels laying cleanly,
The silver of guns,
The fire,
The flame,
The cuffs and spray,
These moons they stretch and bend and fold
Tired, as the world has eaten them whole
Grayson Swearingen is a sophomore in 2D Animation from New Orleans, Louisiana. He is an artist, animator and writer who likes to put a part of his personal experiences into everything he creates.