the Malady

The room is full of notes,
sharp like knives and daggers.
Cutting through the solitude,
ripping it apart, ripping it sharp.

Hole in this soul is full of poison.
Black as the demon wings.
Every island is burnt down,
by the storms that remain as your eyes.

I take the pleasure and rip you down,
down from that high pedestal.
I want to watch how the blood flows,
how the heart slows down from the eternal beating.

You are wearing a mask on this rotten face.
Hiding, like I don't know.
Like I don't know how everything about you
is just a clockwork of another malady.