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There ain’t a cloud

for miles in this black hole,

or at least as far as I can tell.

What’s not as brightly lit

hides in the corners of wit,

but just can’t keep to itself.

Where there is daylight,

there remains the chance

it was all inside your head.

An exit revealed

by what you think is real.

You know you’d rather stay put instead.

There ain’t no soul searching worth a damn

in a ghost town of your design.

I just can’t quit

the true abyss

that I’m still waiting to arrive.

I am a scavenger on a bad trip

that sees its face in the dead it consumes.

So gloriously grim,

but the horror begins

when the threat of sobriety looms.

I think I’m blind.

What got me these eyes

that can’t tell between fire and sunlight?

Oh, what’s the point?

They feel the same anyway.

I’ve learned to best

keep picking the brains of the dead.

Regurgitate and ingest again.

I refuse to leave

‘til I haven’t had my say.

Shambled right into a downward spiral

back to the start.

There’s nothing better, I tell ya.

What’s suffering ever done for art?

credits