Too many graves
the corpses, gone.
I counted wrong.
Too many knives,
the wounds, done.
I healed wrong.
Carving a waterfall
in that trap door
you call a soul.
Craving to become
a river to pour in you
this madness
you call my soul.
Too many shadows
the faces, gone.
I thought wrong.
Too much on my mouth
the promises, done.
I spoke wrong.
Carving a crack
in that wrecked beauty
you call a heart.
Craving to sneak
and pour in you
this virus
I call love.
Too much good
heaven, gone.
Too much joy
disguises, done.
I promised, never again.
The fingers, crossed.
Carving doodles
in the ruins
of who you were.
Craving eternity
as I pour this madness
into the ocean
you call us.
[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.
Writings about a consuming love we would love to hate.]
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 2:04 AM UTC
Too many graves
the corpses, gone.
I counted wrong.
Too many knives,
the wounds, done.
I healed wrong.
Carving a waterfall
in that trap door
you call a soul.
Craving to become
a river to pour in you
this madness
you call my soul.
Too many shadows
the faces, gone.
I thought wrong.
Too much on my mouth
the promises, done.
I spoke wrong.
Carving a crack
in that wrecked beauty
you call a heart.
Craving to sneak
and pour in you
this virus
I call love.
Too much good
heaven, gone.
Too much joy
disguises, done.
I promised, never again.
The fingers, crossed.
Carving doodles
in the ruins
of who you were.
Craving eternity
as I pour this madness
into the ocean
you call us.
[Another recurrence of the Devotion Rot habit—spilled as art.
Writings about a consuming love we would love to hate.]
To be loved for the good —quite easy. To be loved for the ugly in us —what an exquisite doom.
"Come to me, bathed in corruption and sin. No clean feet step into my home"