Poetry / The Art of Dying

This depression rapes my mind,
disembowels my spirit.

My sunken eyes are sepulchural graves.
Visions like serpents rise from the deaths.
They writhe and entwine,

And their slimy snake babies
Slither along my optics, and
Insinuate my brain.

They hiss their recitations
Then ceremoniously plunge their fangs in the
Spongy tissue,

Like hypodermics
Into a felon’s hardened flesh,
Syringes pushing lethality.

They envenom my cognition, and
Implant their demonic convictions,
Then desiccate and tumble down my spine.

Then I, too, writhe upon my bed,
coiling around myself with a fervor
adopted from the wellspring
behind my eyes.

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November 03, 2009

trisomination

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