The Sun Closed It's Eye,
In It's Plush Seat In The Sky,
The Land Bright Below

                       *A Slight Breeze Gestured
              As The Thick Grey Clouds Rolled In
                      Although All Was Calm

The Wind Whispered Soft,
As The Trees Started To Sway,
The Storm Is Brewing

                          Flurries Fell Heavy,
              As The Wind Bellowed Harshly,
                       The Storm Has Begun

The Ice Cold Wind Screamed,
As It Stripped Every Tree's Leaf,
The Storm Was Angry

                           Every Last Leaf Lay,
        On The Ground's Fresh Powdered Snow,
                       The Storm Was Fading            

*The Sun's Opened Eye,
Watched From It's Seat In The Sky,
As The Blizzard Fled

Troglodytism. get betwixt thy cave **** rats. amass!!! beyond the wooded canvas of life.
and lay beside thy corpse of agony
in the pits of all foul'd demon beknownst to thou's angst.

there lay the chalice of life.
Oh to lay in the darkness'
o' to bask in the decadence of no light.

Anti heat
forth go ye unto distraction.
To over sensual
to photopic cancer
all bio centric failure that reveals itself in the concord of vestige

only one

only one who's skin, brines to salt. Only one who's writhed on the depth of the cave
sub terrain.
Becoming convoluted
with ulcers. In the brain.
Stomach
esophagus.
Till veins squelch the blood from oxygen as gills. Sea water.
till muscle over sinews, Myomeres.
till acts of mycotic deprecations elude your own grey. Destruction.
And sap what is left
the bends corrode all health.
You eek out a full metabolism.
You finish all hopes with each loathsome meal intake.
death.

Oysters take over.
They create their home
shell of man.
Disabled to a merman, made, morose.
Barnacles infest recesses,
chasms that held mountains of bountiful moral.
Filled till bursting in the case fit for a brain,
but these ocean vermin walk the tightropes of this goblins neural bag.
Tearing each synapse.
Like the innards of a necrotic recluse.

I am the dying vagabond of the ocean.
Finally succumbing to its ethereal pitch covered floor,
where no reflections mourn for me
and ghost wail me no remorse,
as I metamorphose.
Into, detritus.

Everything smells like cigarette smoke,
and nothing smells
like the butterflies in my gut.

But strangers like the camels I smoke.
So I purge my nervous stomach
onto the blank canvas in front of me;

and I bathe myself in nervous applause,
while my insides
wrestle with the snake left in my belly,
never to be seen
by the audience, because
lovers don't like that.

And no matter how many times
the petals tell you they love you
you have to forget,
Because sometimes they love you not.
So here's to you,
the boy who didn't know how to love me.
I'm letting go,
letting go of the distance
and the silence
and the waiting
and the empty hours
and the vacancy
and the walls I've built
**it's over.