I sipped upon your creative juices,
and drowned, another finger,
into that gory darkness
of thought;

these canopies breathe softly,
as I curl my fingers
and straighten my eyelids
to take another nap;

Yet that dying fetus haunts me-
it’s misted face still echoes
as an unwanted ultrasound,
of bubbling cysts;

I tried ******,
yet the spirals scream:
in this pregnant mind-
and refuse;

So deal with me-
You’re mine.

Yet,
You’re born
...and never alive;