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Poem

“Old man!  ‘Tis not so hard to die.”
-Lord Byron

I have grown sick with wanton desire
My lungs are filling slowly with ash
I need to feel the burn of the fire.
Upon the wreckage my shadow is cast.
To this misfortune I must lay claim.
A lecture on lethargy and disdain,
A symposium of sickness and shame.
I saturate the wound with salt and filth.
I scab over.  I pick until I bleed again.
So this is how I ruin everything
And everyone around me.  Burning at the ends
Down to a smoldering ruin of repute.
A vulgar remnant of hubris and swill
A sad sick example of treachery fulfilled.

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