The Cigar of Wretched Flesh

Beneath a sky of rotting black,

Where stars peel back like blistered skin,

An old man rocks in shadows deep,

A grin carved wide, a hollowed grin.

—

Between his lips—no mortal roll,

No leaf of earth, no seasoned bark,

But stitched-up flesh, a corpse’s wrap,

Still slick with death, still wet and stark.

—

He strikes a match—oh, hear it hiss!

The flame licks up like tongues of woe,

And as he draws, the thing uncoils,

The veins inside begin to glow.

—

The scent—sweet rot and marrow’s dust,

A reek that slithers down the spine.

The smoke it dances, writhes, and twists,

Like strangled fingers clasped in twine.

—

Then from the ember—whispers rise,

Not wind, nor ash, nor burning leaf,

But voices shrill and sorrow-choked,

A dirge of madness, raw with grief.

–

"He smokes us still! He drinks us dry!

Our bones, our skin, our souls, our cries!"

The man exhales—a laughter raw,

His teeth like tombstones, wet with lies.

—

The cigar swells, it pulses red,

A heartbeat stitched from countless damned.

And as they wail, he takes another,

Savoring the sins he planned.

—

His body cracks, his fingers split,

His flesh peels back in curling seams—

Revealing something old, forgotten,

Something built from other’s screams.

—

Then dawn arrives—a timid glow,

But finds no man upon the chair.

Just curling smoke and teeth left grinning,

Drifting lonely through the air.