mum

Bones are blurred 'neath a blanket of tears all the while I've been bored staring at a snaking procession of the Santa Muerte. A pastiche of devotees stutter out their cobbled prayers; the red rum weighs down on my stomach the drink wakes up the snake. I don't share their sweating pilgrimage, the shivering prayer from their dusty feet to a gruel of swaying hands propped up. Bones are burned 'neath a blanket of fears all the while I've been gnawed staring at a snaking procession of the Santa Muerte. Their devotion makes me despise them - that at least is my wish. I am drawn by their subsonic moan the subtle screech of trust.