a fragment of a poem I was working on a year ago

[novapsyche]

Crude oilslicks of sin
slither inside capillaries: creeping
black blood, clogging ventricles
like cancerous cholesterol.

This isn't agony or bliss.
This is pre-agony, death
coursing like fire
in a far-off field: acrid

but distant, faint
but bothersome.