To The Bones

To the bones

Drowned in heavy tar, internal iron bars gripping my heart to make it beat slow and painful. There isn’t any more fresh blood to sacrifice my claims to blame. I can only see you through opaque eyes where sun and fluorescent bulb in their contrast remain equally irrelevant. I need a saviour to speak for me. I need to add my own gospel on mental process to add to your necrotized publishing.

“What do you need?” it asks with intentional vanity. I say maybe it’s loud modern motets or bonbons that crunch and melt. Maybe I need the taste and consistency for my relief but no certainties are arriving at my runway of distress.

Is it time for me to surrender? How so when one is already in a captivity of their own making. Rocking, sleeping, searching for joy and comfort among the material and delusional. I have a damaged cortex mediating consumption and action and the two don’t jive. They collapse, cancelling each other out, an antimatter explosion of hopelessness and redundancy.

Maybe it will just be a day, or week for me to awaken from this oppression that fatigue narrates. All the way to my bones with lead it goes.