the morrow in which we rise. cyanide in the muzzle of the saint bernard sea A one man cult though of course a soft harmonious tune of luminescent ink must remain present in time.


a room
with a
locked door
and pastel walls
i sit in the corner
the door bangs
the knocks of
family
friends
people i should want
in my life
yet
i don't
the comfort
found in my isolation


A bathe in bleach; mat on the ground. I've began stories most fun. arsonist of the claw i must ask our lovely raven why must i take part in this so. they've ridiculed me tearing my wings to which I turn to the burrows of skin inhabited by maggots and tar. a melted candle pierced with rusted nails. the keyhole will tell



my head
in my hands
the tears
pouring from
my eyes
my heart
softly braking
i could
turn to alcohol
but then
i would be
my father
i cant smoke
cant stand
the smell
and so
here i sit
turning
to the only thing
that ever
helped me
get through
the isolation

his crown leans off the side of his head with sunken eyes he's consumed every bit of light he sees. of night is to day the sparrow wouldn't hesitate to call the end of me.