Caught within
the cot I built
to slaughter
all the goals that fit

A miasma, thick
with success and stress
in growth, the wisest
call duress

on my throne
sits the black honed axe
seething at my fauna,
as I contemplate their imminent trauma

I'd rather watch them grow
as steel plummets to their throats
augmenting my flock of ghosts
enclosing the lonesome cot and throne