either joking or desperate,
I wish more and more I could shoot my mind here and now
for maiming me,
and all my dignity.
Whenever it brings me to a crisis
– condemns my passions,
– every place I come to sit,
or just be at,
with miasma for air
and like an eternally prolonging waiting room.
Waiting for what?
Probably redemption seeming out of reach at such moment
Whilst amid the dark matters.
Mostly sure that’s how Catholic purgatory would be like:
copper taste in the soul,
tower of pressure,
no greatness to behold,
no hope for another day to come.
When your Mind comes to trap You and you see beyond the fourth wall of its shenanigans more or less