lights out, it's time to sleep now...
blood on
my tongue and
the bullet
of a cold gun
swimming down
my gullet, but
surprisingly;
demise tastes
much more
pleasant to me,
rather than the
rotting vestige of
the prison cell
walls that
the angels
lock me in to
fester in disease
and insanity
of my damning life
at every waking moment.
...for the lights of hellfire burn eternal.
YOU ARE READING
Oneirology
Poetry♦♦♦ Oneirology: the study of dreams. Dreary reality intertwined with nuances of dreamy phantasm; for when my quill is spitting iridescent rainbow mirages instead of murky ink puddles. ♦♦♦
