The evening sun bathed in liquid stars.
The smell of rioting flesh and festering intestines encircled the bar.
Death sat and played a pulse-less tune on his guitar.
He sank his feet into the earth daydreaming of rolling hipsters and blazing flings.
He paints his notes with absent strings.
Idle visitors pay in beating veins while listening to their loneliness shudder on blinding streets
The bartender burned alive, serves bourdon while his skin peels from his left cheek.
Carving holes in their stomach, the stinging sweeten in purgatory
Death played until his bones disintegrated and left the innocent tortured by muted imagination.
Has your song is played and death’s alluring smoked is inhaled, unafraid
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