Pile of Dead Horses

The larynx croaks inward devotion. 
  An existence hewn from varicose flesh. 
  Palatal tones pass dimly outward 
  from a slurred and careworn wretch's mouth. 
  Bereft of love, self inflicted. 
  The molded image of a crippled whelp. 
  Marked with a benign crow's foot 
  and wallowing in placidity. 
  and from the same loam, I was borne and cut. 
  A wicked lich, spiraling senseless. 
  Caustic pariah.  Pitch smeared visage. 
  Boring through you.