I

i
the perpetual
blanket of clouds
dooming a fate
of belittled feats

i
the begrudged warrior
my hands lay the scars
of my untimely defeats

i
mesmerized by pain
and enchanted by beauty

i
hold a feast
atop the heads
of the liars
who drew me

i
inhale mescaline
and slip off in a dream
at least i did it in a dream
if you get what i mean

i
the never serious
too telling gloomy galavant
talk too much and step too fast

i
the write off to a
play
that was never attended

i
the over exuberant
casket of miserable maps
drawn out with misplaced fears

i
the unsustainable umbrella
of an utter ubiquitous
upbringing

i
the burning final copy
and
the dust on the draft

i
the inexplicable
endurance of insanity

i
the menace
of men

i
the lonely
wolf dressed as a lamb

i
the fiend of
forgotten things

i
the recognizable shadow
at the foot
of your bed

i
withered
and dead

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