Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god


The putrid smell hits my nostrils,
The decay of youth slipping away.
Sliding out of sight, into a forest of
Penumbra, the fugue more tasteful
Than what I could have been.
Grandeur grips me, slays me
With delusions as I blend in with the bedlam.
An aria of dusk passes through me.
I am a ghost, still believing in life
When I am no longer useful.
The contours of my decadence are
All that keeps me comfortable
As I forever wander, aimlessly, looking
For purpose in the dead of my dreams.
I sing to an audience of whispers,
My breath producing an incandescent dirge.
How resplendent, the melody of
The great below, lulling those who
Suffer brainsickness into salvation.
I follow the oblique, not to heaven
But to a lake burning in anger.
A shriek acts as an appetizer
Before being thrown into an eternity of nothing.


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