From the past, my heart has bounded
Into the darkness, future allowed it
To grow and thrive in a stagnant fountain
With memories and parasites soaking it, shrouded.

Until the day when words grow weary,
And passion and pain express themselves dreary,
I must continue my profitless query,
Allowing my raw, wrestless hands to steer me.

For the past has a sweet and sticky smell
Resting in the heart of it's contunuous well,
Screaming and thrashing, beckoning me to sell
My soul to myself, in this bottomless hell.

The deal has signed itself through omission,
My very existence, the rim of permission
Creating the pull of art and submission,
Filling my mind with artificial ambition.

Darkness never boasted exposure,
Instead it's wet walls comforted closure,
Repeating misguided love over and over,
For luck is for pennies and distorted clovers.

My pen, my temple, my rusty bronze chains,
My lifeline, my mother, the noose from which I hang,
My disguise, my outlet, the scrawled figures of my name.
Nothing hurts more than having to refrain.