it grows
more difficult
fending off
the succubus
madly whispering
subtle insanities
as i grow older
easier to fall
into obsessive loops
to dissociate any
action from meaning
as i wander fretfully
in the increasingly
loud silence of
dying in solitude

the world is
filled with an
insipid rot
a garden of death
spreading sporeclouds
of negatively charged
emotional distress
yet i stumble along
finding pockets
where beauty thrives
in the dessication
of lingering hope

it’s impossible
to navigate the undertow
when a heart only capable
of disappointment whispers
dreams insanity shatters
so covered in scars
it gets harder to
draw blood even as
the agonies are
all ephemeral
vomiting incidentals
while failing to
hit a single vein
just etching reminders
on the leathered flesh
of my own shambling corpse
to wildflower fields
long left fallow