The Doom of My Departure
The departure is all I know.
Its familiarity is embedded in the sadistic comedy of my consciousness.
Its affection is engraved in the intimate deception of my own searing flesh.
Its practice plays on a loop in the fond erraticism of my haste.
The malice kisses my tears as it spits salt into my sores.
The isolation tends to my methodical mourn of a mockery.
The reassurance of my ruin strokes my hair; a reminder of my rational wreckage.
The impulsive denial of my fate lingers in the darkness of my preordained doom.
The doom of my dread.
The doom of my denial.
The doom of my destiny.
The deliberate descent into the dusk holds me hostage.
The eerie malevolent vines of its malign wrap around my vindictive matter.
It squeezes until I drip with the decay of my own skin-swallowing dejection.
The white of its teeth gleam at me, gasping in my reluctant pleas of sojourn.
The rot fuses with the warmth of my blood and the salt of my sweat.
This is the end I yearned for.
This is the termination I yearned for.
This is the finale I yearned for.
Calculated.
Segregated.
Anticipated.
The doom of my departure.
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