I live in the house of silence,
a three-storeyed tomb where the dead walk
pretending to be alive.
Going about the meaningless business of their lives,
faces painted in bright vibrant colours
to hide the white pale face of death.
Covering their rotting skin with levis and Armanis.
Underneath fine french perfumes,
sleeps the odour of decay.
And so I walk upto them
and slit their throats,
one by one,leaving them
drowning in their stinking black blood.
Choking, the bodies thrash and struggle,
but only for a while.
Nails going white, clawing at the floor tiles
dig into the edges, get stuck
Opening fresh wounds for the blood to rush out of,
like convicts from a prison break.
Finally I slit my throat
and lie in a tub,
blood mixing with water,
runs down the drain.
A lone bubble swims to the surface,