Thursday, October 13, 2011


Grasping and flailing and burning for air
The brown tinges of decay frosting the fabric
Muted vibrations and diluted colors
Leak with disdain where they once poured free
Doubting and hating and yearning for warmth
Grayish hued veins crawl upwards and away
Inaccurate and hyperbolic self-accusation
Tear and degenerate the withered flesh

For I am my comfort, I am my seed
The filament, the shade, the throne.
A heart hearkens lightly and tosses its qualm,
And then, I will turn into stone.

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