a blank slate
not even eroded by the toxic waste
pumping within my lungs and
cleansed across the record.
somewhat of an archetype
of a shattered specimen,
much like my illusions
that were made into dust
and spread as if they were my own ashes.
you are the warrior
and i'm just the battlefield,
deteriorating and decaying
just beneath your boot.
i am nothing more
than the back side of your penny.
you are a barbarian
gargling for a tad more than just
my one cent.
clawing through my skin
like the abominable creature you are,
possessing my soul
as you would rather do a dime.
a blank slate
is a room not created for recovery
instead it is hashed away
where it infuses into my ribs
penetrating every single breath.
a blank slate
much less relieved and ruptured
than the vacancy
that scatters within my gut.