lost am i
on a season of
reconciliation.
tried and true
the billowy blue
which calls itself
a home.
i see everything
as it comes and goes,
as my coffin lies in wait
for a sordid corpse to pick
its way through the dying
leaves.
but before my death i must
surrender, this depressive mode
for freedom never came to the weary
only the willing.
and the audience applauds
well done, you sickly being
forever living as an open wound
but little do they know
i've my own audience now.
and i know i stand in hell
with my own mind.