a series of seemingly
misplaced affections stapled
unwillingly to the
heaving valves of a
latchkey heart
three hundred and sixty five
bloody furrows etched
in groups of five across
the prison walls where
nothing awaits except for
the callous dismissal of
diminishing returns
as callused hands disabuse
the notion of importance
in impotent agonies inflicting
a confusion of carefully
constructed casual disregard
the silence echoes in time
to the three syllables
that tumble fully formed
into the open sewer of
unreciprocated dreamspasms

tha gates of hell
hang twisted and broken
the flames long since
died out leaving
only a lingering sense of
sulphurous fugue hanging
itself from the rusted hooks
in a permanence of
unhappy acceptances strewn
in apathetic bouts of
awful self awareness