Faustian

“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.