I almost feel like
I could steal the peace pipe,
smoke it all to myself,
and then go around like
the enemy of mankind...

‘Don’t look up,’

I tell myself,

‘It will only make it harder.’

But it’s too late...

It’s already coming over me...

I feel it’s anxious
hooks digging in
beneath my skin.

I’m being lifted up
to where I know that
when they rip out...

...And they always do...

I will fall to my
certain doom.

It’s too late…

I’m already over
the broken moon.

A reflection in my mind
waiting to be pulled apart…

My only regret is this;

How slow of a killer
this gravity *is.