The great siamese fates - solitude and harrow
Another morning - extra dry - like that one spirit
With vodka or gin, on preference.
The blood exonerates -
Veins screaming for release -
Dream of glorious suicides
Like leaking pipes -
Dressed in full gown - adorned with suit and tie,
With flag behind - final salute - to slit the wrist.
I breed ache.
Stronger than a thousand fibers breaking,
Rein in the souls of pale cigarettes
Longing for extinguishment.
The chain will never break -
Validation is short-lived - like opiate highs.
Drenched in failure, one, I surmise,
Can die twice.
We never learn to hide.
The hot tub filling - crimson
The blade looming overhead, expectantly
- We die twice, indeed.
One moment prior,
Like gushing geysers
And flutter towards
Loci - of pleasure and power and thrill
Of misery, pleasant smell,
Of so intense a moment,
Of lindens and melanin (or lack thereof) and perfume
- And soft hands
We die thrice - famished and sleepless.
Like bridges molten by time.
Only slit vessels - the red of which
Words can't describe - dread one can't fathom.
Perhaps the quietude of the fade can -
Disgorge the anguish.
And finally birth rest.