Written at 4 a.m. whilst intoxicated.
And so we are encased in steel and ice
And priced no more than what we deem ourselves worth
But conceding to all that which we whisper in silent moments
And in the comforting horror of the drop before sleep
Well worth all or worth nothing
We struggle, and battle, with our damned selves
For we cannot outrun or outpace or out-sing or out-lie
The self we are left with when the sun falls and the light becomes shade
O damned be the lights of the nights of our lives
For so falsely we fall to our fallacies of failure
I urge thee to examine the intricacies of all the knots in your mind that you dismiss
From the bedlam of all your denial of who you are
To those fucking goblins, little and small and paramount
That are sickly and are sticklers, and you call "companions"
Hidden in the night of your realm of dreams and solitary thoughts
Or not even, but rather etchings by master artisans with a cruel mastery of memory
M.M.
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