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