byDecayed Angel©

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A table, wood grained
in splintered textures
surface touched in blood,
finger stained trails
to chamfered edges,
a chain -- rusted, locked,
the empty hall in sunlight
bright in its lack, fading.

A voice, hoarse and wavering
its sound lost in the rhythm
a lyrical lashing, laced in blood
the timeless beat echoing
off sterile beige walls
and the single chair.

A man, a country drift closer apart
in the searing pain, each nuance
different, yet the same
the color graying from "right"
as fingers grasp the table edge
waiting, waiting, waiting to...

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