There is
a wooden
cabin on a hill
It awaits me still.
Hate, Loathing, and Pride, sit by the
indoor fire. And discuss disgust. Logs
of spit and mucus in an ivory stack, therein,
breaketh not they for moon or sun. In abyss, engulfed
in a blister, of scarlet marsh and murky water. Of poison
their cups are filled; midnight blue, the cherubic wine of sorrow.
I join once more my dearest friends and gaze into the fire's flat, eternally burned, lithium disk.