I'm so tired;
this murk, this dread sickness
it tugs at the edges of my heartstrings
and pulls me deeper into my own ocean
of disarray, cold and vascular
it shrieks terrible nothings into the void
of my years. Its godmachine erodes me;
slowly tearing my blood from my throat
like a viscious lover, a sweet suicide.
I am awash in its elegance;
I could find myself lost in its temptation
its delicacies like cemetary rot -
scrawl my own name in epitaph beauty.
I used to find the oldest headstone
in a graveyard, and wonder what they lived
through. But something hideous haunts
the edges of my sepia; a sfumato encience.
But God, if I could merely raise my brush
for one last masterful stroke at existance;
I fear I'd bleed through this insipid canvas
and leave upon it too much of my lifesblood.
And so I pray now that this century-ache
can depart; I'll breath full under the crescent moon
and feel myself alive with trepidation
at the concept
of merely being alive
of loving every moment
as every beat is shred through my arteries
.

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