fetid skin,
so worn and thin.
it bears not hope,
to keep it in.
Awash beneath,
a sea of sin.
You'll go without,
and die within.

A broken shore
of wave-beaten stones,
the wrecks of ships,
and scores of bones.
The quest of kings
who, **** for thrones.
The lust of those
who, write down poems.

Pigment of the evening
overwhelming, by thought
artfully winding, and weaving,
for naught.
Though your vision is endless
your colour needs work,
it’s drab, unto darkness,
your pallet’s berserk.

You must change;

You must change how you’re feeling.
From bottom to ceiling,
I swear that you’re healing.
Disregard the unfeeling,
forget that you’re reeling.
Do not be caught kneeling
in thoughts now congealing-
to naught-
but the pealing-
of bells;

Or be lost.

Not to life,
but to cause.
Draped in strife,
trapped in was.

Crack of thunder,
scent of rain.
Wait for spring
to ease my pain.

Ease yourself,
my addled brain.
Wait for spring,
for sounds of rain.

Cutting teeth,
for me,
was more akin to
cutting tendons.
life had faded out of view,
and had been traded in for pen, runs.
A wretched fate for fetid few.
I can’t escape it;

my pen runs.

I’m gonna die.
I’ve made my peace with that
it’s fine, it’s simple,
peaceful,
that.

but why's it seem like lately
always growing, ever strangely,
this feeling,
that I’m walking
drawing closer
to an end
that might come early.
worried? surely.
but I’m not;

I’ve seen it coming,
slowly.
Seen it dawning,
seen me falling,
crawling closer,
to an end;
that distant friend.

I won’t pretend
I fear it.
For closer, as I near it
I can feel my spirits calming,
resting,
silently;

finally.

Sea of Sorrows,
let me drown.
Fill my lungs,
and drag me down.

I’ll swim, a soul
awash in still,
awake to dream,
my new Bastille.