I now kneel upon the barren earth of my desolate garden,
Clutching a soiled ***** with these scraped, fractured hands.
With this ugly design to dig up each raw fragment of my wounded self,
Dread and terror encircle me, like phantoms lurking in the depths of night,
Their icy grip growing even tighter with each passing breath.
I tear through every inch of my flesh, peeling skin to the bone,
Until the decaying corpus of my inner child unveils itself.
My cries reverberate, and my voice thunders through the shadows of the relentless night
Upon the discovery of such a harrowing crime by my soul.
I flee in pursuit of aid, chasing the promise of never returning back to the cursed garden,
Yet, the pitiless tempests of life redirect my course back to that sombre place,
Like a puppeteer’s hand steering a marionette, destined to revisit the obscurity once more.
Oh, how I long to pluck out mine eyes,
Unseam these veins, and drain my earthly vessel of its crimson essence,
So that I can cradle the petite, half-rotten body lying there, within my yearning arms.
But let me just lie here, until I am lifted up to another world,
One bathed in luminescence, adorned with gilded splendour and ethereal beauty of dreams.