a dissident's cave

lying prone, gorged and purposeful
in the swollen midnight
part of a cursed brethren
of a far away Asia

a scar on my forehead
a scar on my hand
the burned impressions
inverted in a careful split

becoming of a foul, smoky
and lying tone
buzzing along-side
a careful practitioner
in scented pricks

the pristine fluid
reabsorbed by my body
leaving the skull
I now hearing warnings
from this cursed tent
as we taste the salty sea
limitless in it's sultry waves

sworn to secrecy
in this cloudy den
hearing the snap
of an incense stick,
and smelling the cloudless
doom of her clothes

we're stuck in ashes
and movies are made
as the putrid stench wafts
from a cutter's knit