My days are each bleeding into the next, hours becoming
Meshed together in thick pastes that crumble and dust the
Corners of the dungeon my mind spends its trapped and bordered daytime's.
The visuals of the well ones filling their moments with smiles on
Behalf of their ever so heavenly states of minds do march ways past
The windows, though barely scraping the attention of my medicated gaze
Past your shoulders.
The sickness drips down and rivers through my sinuses
As my poor, parched, and overworked antibodies give a
Final heave of worthless attempt to ward off the invaders
gnawing at the last part of me called 'good'.
The snapping vines ricochet off my heels and stalk my
Ink-blotted footsteps down gray-brick corridors; though flaked
with the most burgundy of rust still holding a thrillingly rustic sense of spirit.
And only the feeling of paranoia-spotted fear flood my brain stem highways
And congest the traffic to and fro my dry, tender, scarred nasal passages.