Tasting pungent, brackish tears,
Never satisfied with the depthless darkness,
Tenebrous fingers reaching from the inside out,
Spreading fingers from my chest resemble an autumnal oak,
Leafless and outstretched, yearning for a new death.
And the light, so certain, could set it ablaze,
With its auroral gleam, yet the darkness persists,
Like caramel or toffee,
Glued in with a sickly, messy adhesion.
I yearn to self-immolate, burning as a phoenix,
Shedding these acrimonious ashes and burning like a beacon,
An emancipation from the amorphous tar tendrils,
And a new embrace into the cleansing sun.