When the clock strikes 12 p.m.,
my darkened soul will fade away
into mere reflections of death,
fire burning eyes seeping into
endless hallucinations, crammed
eyelids soaked in gasoline, scarred
cheeks cloaked in hardened equations,
every single surface an upturned
dimension sifting in a flowing
river of pain, stuffed lips buried
in improbable parts, scraped arms
and thighs constructed in one
dimensional depths, as I count the
many ways to bring death closer
to my sight.  I want to feel the pain
of a thousand knives splintering inside
my mind, splattered flesh rearranging
into crushed nouns and pronouns,
pounding conjunctions crowding in
explosive dungeons, all gray and
blackened, crippling, the exact shade
of blazing creations.  It would
be simple, in a world of nothingness,
to walk across a wave of jagged nails
and feel its damaging existence slowly
pierce my life into a broken bridge of
chilled depictions.