Yellowism

A sentence to end him
The word became cold flesh on a noose
The gallows his picture frame
I’ll talk to God about the souls I’ve pulled out
Run my fingers through our hair
Tyrants of meaning
Monopolies of beauty
«Even flowers are black at night»
I’ll make my morals from the bottom up
Sweet depravity my god
My only power not in a word
He smiled all the way down
The punch line silenced
Read his scars like a psalm