11. Suicide Horizon

Art is my lover,
A dark escape from this emptiness,
Fed with false lips,
An appetite for aspersion.

 I’ve fabricated my world in soft tissue and lithium,
Backbone splitting with the demorol I’m sipping,
Strings of tendons, stretched across my names,
Because the shameless brave what the nameless always crave.

 In my moment of power,
I’ve reduced these memoirs to ash,
A reflection of what a memory means,
The instigation of what we were never meant to be.


And through it all, I’ve bled these bones dry.
Seeking what lies beyond the horizon.

The End

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