The mind swirls with a delirium
Like a bowl of stirred ice water.
And the austere, primal instinct to kill
Is vetted hundreds of times a second.
I oft conspire with
A gloomy misery against the self.
This cavity I call a heart
Is the benefactor of a crooked misfeasor.
There is but black, and only black
To the colour of my thirst.
So I will invoke the Id once more
And prowl about, citing truth in pain.
…
There is no reason to question
The prejudice of flowing blood.
God’s creations are made in his image.
And his imagination seems all too obdurate.
People in this world prove in excess
That the book’s cover is worth gold,
And that suffering is a trivial dogma
When weighed against the possibility of hedonism.
Again, black thirst.
Again, black oblivion.
Awaiting another callous glance, these words lay
Bare before your flawless perception.
Thank you.