Heaven and Hell
There's a passageway, too narrow with blood dripping like on a sweet dish, already slashed reminders of executed limbs. Junk of fears cluttering the nasal pipe, forming a blockage of uncanny fixing of oxygen.
A rather peculiar pungency of rotting bones, still sweating the future from what is to become of now. It's still pumping, the already counting pendulum of beats, warped around each artillery like a cosy lover snuggled to sleep dreamily.
It isn't about how many times the ticks brought back the forgotten and impossible eventualities, but which one's drowned the dripping melancholy in it's grasp.
Two feets hesitating,
Three disasters brewing death,
Four limbs cutting each other off.
Silence, what a profound vessel to echo withholding screams. Did you recognize her? She was here too, until paradoxes ripped her into two. Each one for heaven and hell.