As I curl up in decay
The only thoughts that stay
Are the ones I wish to drown
Out and away

The only thoughts that stay
Are that the rot seeping out of me
Is going to slowly seep
Its way into you

The only thoughts that stay
Is that my decay
Is going to slowly spread
And eat it's way through you

So the only thoughts
That won't stay at bay
Are the ones of slowly
Silently
Creeping away

𝒜 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒜𝓅𝑜𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓎𝓅𝓈𝑒  
𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓎 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒹  
𝒷𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝒻𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓅𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓉𝑒  
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝒸𝓀 𝒾𝓃 𝑜𝓃𝑒'𝓈 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝓌  
𝑜𝓃 𝑒𝓂𝓅𝓉𝓎 𝓅𝒶𝑔𝑒𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓇𝓇𝒽𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓂𝓈  
𝒶 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒹𝒷𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝒻 𝒟𝓇𝒶𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈  
𝑜𝒻 𝓊𝓃𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒸𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝓌𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌𝓈  
𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒻𝓇𝒶𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑒𝓂𝒷𝓇𝓎𝑜𝓈  
𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓈𝑜𝓂 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑜𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽'𝓈
𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓇𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝓈𝑜 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝒶𝒹𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 
𝓉𝑜𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓀𝒾𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓊𝓈𝓉  
𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓎 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒹

A grind—bones against gravel,
Flesh pulled thin by rusted teeth.
A wail, swallowed by the wind,
Spat back hollow, broken.

The carousel, once a carnival of hope,
Rots in a barren field.
Its beasts—hulking shadows,
Eyes wide, frozen in fear
Of what never came.

Time loops—endless, merciless—
A cruel ring of blood and ash,
Twisting upon itself,
Never ending, never beginning,
Only echoing empty promises.

The wind howls with ghosts of lost ambition,
Claws dragging across splintered wood,
Brushing rusted metal—
Each touch a whisper
Of what could have been, but never was.

Dreams died here.
No one mourned.
They only rotted,
Sinking into the earth,
Leaving behind echoes
No one dares to hear.

And still, the carousel spins—
Not because it wants to,
But because it's too broken to stop.

Men plunge and ****** their spears into
Pointless flesh
You've let it in through your ribben cage, and so drunkenly judged this poor exchange
Of a branch's strength to a wrench's

More wood
More wood for the fiery eyes of the younger
Isn't it good
There's new flesh for the trenches
Whom with an unquenched thirst
And a gray wolf's hunger
Ignore the flesh, rot and stenches.

I poured champagne on the garden,
just to see what wouldn’t grow.
A rebellion disguised as art,
too small to leave a bruise.

The idea felt poetic—
a confession spilled like incense,
settling heavy in the soil,
thicker than regret.

By dusk, the dirt turned sticky,
a graveyard for good intentions,
gold on a barren altar,
pearls drowning in sweetness turned sour.

A bee circled the spill,
its wings trembling,
caught between greed and retreat.

I wanted to tell it, Save yourself.
But even the flowers had given up,
their petals folded like apologies
too late to matter.

I stood barefoot in the dirt,
watching bubbles rise slick
against the roots of something already dying.

At least the garden refused me honestly—
its silence more forgiving
than any answer you gave me.

I laughed at how pathetic it felt—
a toast to nothing,
a promise unraveling,
luxury offered to the lifeless.

I’ll wake up tomorrow
and call it nothing,
but the smell of champagne
will linger on my palms.

And you’ll linger, too,
where regret always does—
settled deep in the soil,
refusing to grow.

I stand in front of a stone library
that once held great knowledge therein,
but stands now empty under skies dreary.
I whisper a prayer for our sins:

Please, Lord, let the children who follow us
grow wiser than we ever were.
Let them yet be the loving kindness
that we have signally failed to confer.

I doubt that they will ever forgive us
for this fallen world that we’re handing down
thanks to all the blind disservice
by leaving little but ash on the ground.

Before us all stand two stone gates
each leading to diverging roads:
The one leads to our visible fate
while the other fate overthrows.

Please, Lord, let those born in these days
choose the path of the unknown
instead of taking the road that behind us lays:
They shall our foolishness swiftly outgrow.

What few blessings I may pass on to you,
O dear reader of the future’s present,
I give you freely in hopes of a new
rebirth in a world without end, amen.

I beg and churn and oft dream,
I crave and long from all in my being,
All that is scattered all that is seen,
All that is bound to decay,
All to stumble back in your way,
Frivolous being am I to sight,
Everything I am doesn't fit right,
18 years to build this mould,
That replicates what is foretold,
A venture in this soul,
Had me realise it is dead,has no goal,