Regression of shallow songs
that repeat on the reflection
of what was versed in sight.

My thoughts discerning on
impressions that are dissected
within my illusions of fact.

My memoires are tissue paper
regrets that are wiped away,
but never clean the stain of thought.

I have shrapnel stuck with the
halls of my recollection that tell
me I was wrong to live when I died.

Could you sleep on the shards of
what I swam within, I'm a breath
away from slumber, *"I wish for death.