I sipped upon your creative juices,
and drowned, another finger,
into that gory darkness
of thought;
these canopies breathe softly,
as I curl my fingers
and straighten my eyelids
to take another nap;
Yet that dying fetus haunts me-
it’s misted face still echoes
as an unwanted ultrasound,
of bubbling cysts;
I tried ******
yet the spirals scream:
in this pregnant mind-
and refuse;
So deal with me-
You’re mine.
Yet,
You’re born
...and never alive;