The Collector. Part 1: Muse

Lying here
Inside a song
It seems
Inside every song I've ever read
Written not by a bloodthirsty man
But a shock-hungry trend
Rags of flesh discarded on the ground

Eyes and ears hastily carved from heads
While a frustrated surgeon searched for something he feared he'd never find
The flies have long since settled on their feast
Breeding maggots in the eyesockets of the deceased
The walls and floor undulate under tiny beasts

Amidst the chaos and all the unclean a body lay cold
Yet cared for
Stitched up
Yet pristine
A bedside jar held entrails waiting to be fit inside her empty shell
She rested
Queenlike
In this fragrant hell

Her arms smooth and white
Sewn to hands missing fingers
My gaze trembled up her delicate neck
And I noticed her mouth was opened wide
Her pale hair flowed down to the floor
Brushed and clean
And next to several organs in glass
Floated two large blue eyes

Footsteps trampled down stairs
He was dragging another lucky bride
I balled my fists
Flexed my legs
And cursed my restraints
A bad taste left in my mouth from biting through tape

Trying to build the perfect woman I see
How very creative
A love you can customize
How many donors did you volunteer
Now flayed
Displayed
And forgotten in dark corners if not for the stench they emanate
Am I joining the ranks
What part of my body will you attach to hers