self portrait as reflected in oblivion’s empty gaze

it is in this
hollowboned
depression
that oblivion
sings the sweetest
whispering
in the cold darkness
pooled inside
this wicker man
filled to bursting
with icy insignificance
too many hours
lost in a month
where realizations
still spark acrid
bitterness on my
talented tongue
where it was
made apparent
there is nothing
to be here
nothing to see here
just a storefront
of life’s lackings
spread over a frame
of the utmost ugliness.

i don’t matter
none of this does
i want the sleep
that eludes me
the love that
is repelled by me
something to fit
this itchy cadaver
of insolent idiocies.

death doesn’t
want my tainted form
as she has no interest
in life’s
sloppy seconds.

just another
beastial tragedy
in beautiful
grotesqueries.

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