What morals of man to I dreadfully consider,
but those of a Child, but confused, not bitter?
A heart, which approaches its time to stop beating,
an opened head wound, with no pain for easing,
the trigger and hammer, and interest it’s seizing,
all so disgustingly, twistingly pleasing.
Incompetent
Incontinent
A sign of approach you’re neglecting
The uncontrolled rem’nence of bane needs collecting.
the willful collapse of a safe house on fire,
the self bloodied sting of cold piano wire,
a pair of dead eyes that will never get brighter,
and the words of a crazy, dead, bitter, cold writer.