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Within the boundless void of the I

Through the filters of endless writings

I slide, oppressively drifting yet alone

I feel divided

Incurable...

This pulse...

Is this the blood of a tyrant?

Or maybe a prophet's?

Is this vital poison the lymph of a worm?

The fathomsless crappy hole of consciousness, I design

Like anal introspection, falling inwards.

A regression to existence's upheaved, I cut

The slices of dereliction, tumbling backwards

Lost?

Within myself?

This is an actor's debt to reality

Offering promises of heaven

While hell's rotten tongues are still licking my mask

Falling inside, in vain, seeking with fear

The warm empty darkness of eternal slumber.