Numbers of the lights still don't add up. The dream station on the orange bridge's sands, is so totally too far away to fly to. My life according to the animadversion of my dreams. The harangue and opprobrious odium whilst wandering about aimlessly in the square, on the blackened honey trail where I was cast around like some pebble lapidated by the wind. I barely stand, a hyaloid column soaked in fear and ambiguphobia; one girl's face is blurred by this maddening diplopia. While the haze drapes me in its suits of cinereous gray, I crawl sadly up the rise while I am bruised from the battering. My fuscous body heaps itself, exhausted and pandiculating, all I can make out in the advesperating and cloudy night, in all of its dourly silences- the gold hair fixed against the banner of light in the darkening sky and her beautiful blue eyes.

It sits in my stomach / Resting, waiting.
Unsolved, / But not unwarranted.
A problem.

It stirs / it bristles as it sits up and stretches.
Yawning / pandiculating.
It's awake.
\
It begins to gnaw.
Eating you alive from the inside.
Encompassing the whole of your mind.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus.
You can't.
You run.
You can't.
You hide.
You can't.
You breath.
You can't.
You can't.
You can't.
It is there.
It lives on.
It cannot die.
It thrives.
It grins.
You collapse.
It wins.