All these sins in the head
Guide to the rapture of the father
Like snakes slithering across flowing grass
A killer in the weeds
Sliding like ice across thawing lakes
With the grace of air
They hold such beauty, magnificance
And only appear like some
Deus ex machina to lie about
The freedom they supposedly bring
Eating heart and mind
Leaving the body to rot and decay
Incomplete poetry with no one to edit
Signing biographies with unique penmanship
Whole beings made from past torment
Memories stabbing happiness in the chest
With only ambition of failure in mind.
Damned corporate values, unkind to the individual
The end is the beginning is the end, of this.
Serpents need to satisfy hungers as well
Even if it means consuming their own venom.
How come loneliness invites
Such awful friendships?
Pals created by spectres of the past
Incorporeal yet, not exactly the emptiness of nothing
Wicked, sensative issues made worse by
Attempts resonating through airways.
Liars are at least predictable, they lie
Ghosts, however, haunt because of truthful statements
Pain leaves scars that do not heal
Just wounds that never stop bleeding.
Jumping into chasms that were originally made
To only be six feet deep
Might bring solutions, if only a bottom
Could be found to end the descent
Shovels will never aid the unearthing
Of this family pet buried in the backyard garden
Morning pills and sexual natures only comfort
No remedy. No cure. Simply placebos.
Darkness below, and trauma forward
The time to leap becomes enticing.
Will o'wisps taunt with potential
Progress in future still possible
Unfortunately, gaze is turned to the murky pond
The fetid, reflective pool
That corrupts its mirror image.
Swamps are all too characteristic.
All manner of creature to represent
Or destroy through symbolism
The bizarre humid-cold imbalance
Is far too fitting subject matter.
If only bones would break and sever
Tendons connected to heartache
Years are not seas, they are oceans
Too vast to navigate, too boundless
It's easy to get lost or drown within
Horizons never seem to be free of storms
Sinking feelings set in as oxygen breathes out
When razorblades become still in soap dishes
Resting on the edge of a bathtub.
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