I have grown into a man, or so they tell me. I think they may be a decade late in their estimation. There are no reperations for losses of innocence, or else I would have been corrupted by wealth long before corruption itself. At least walls don't speak- they would scream every time I beat them into submission against my bloody knuckles.
This progeric condition is getting old. The midnight glows speak in ghost tones, and I translate apparitions. Once upon a yesteryear I cowered from darkness; now I drag out every second of my darkest hours.
The poet sits alone in hell's kitchen: sipping goose in an attempt to fly away from the frigid indian summer's boiling blisters. May this swan-song cathartically vanquish the greys. I want to paint a picture, but I cannot think of a thousand synonyms for black.
My affliction is ripping me into new halves, and halves-nots. These knots are cinched to hold on two. If I could go back in time, I would not rewind a minute. I have seen the promised land, and watched it break into a million jurisdictions. Justice is a cold dish, best served with smoldering coals.
One must walk through the valley to understand the mysteries of the depths. I no longer fear death. If I should die before I wake, may the wake be a celebration of ascent. I hit rock bottom a while ago, and I left it my property rights. This house is not a home. There is a mansion in the next step of destiny wherein the masses genuflect in sabbatical research.
Each breath is a blessing
and a curse.
Fuck this earth.
It is too beautiful
to appreciate
in all its birth,
and death.
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