My Pondering Syllables
Sometimes I sit and I ponder.
I ponder about my lacquered erudition.
I ponder about my varnished rectitude.
I ponder about my penning acquiescence.
The insipid tedium of my veins questions my oblivion to a stupor so stark to the glorification of my solitude.
I ponder its adjacent to the extolment of my void.
The seething flame sanctifies the feigning rot of my lungs as I inhale the melancholy of your lips.
Something so soothing.
Something so soaring.
Something so laboriously stinging.
I desire for the salvation of sin;
To tattoo your words on my tongue.
To swallow my decay in your blood.
To fuse your disparity on my webs.
I sit and I ponder.
Am I so inured to the metal of these bars, I distort the culpable intimacy of still yet existing in one?
And thereafter, I ponder whether my silver ashes will ever dare to utter the sinister sacrilege of my syllables.
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