pissy buckets of shitty poetry

axis to the atlas

The night is certain and the dark is very long,
excessively protracting through a missing ray of sun,
forgetting to what place and when it started to belong,
hidden far too near inside the mist it hopes to shun

Yet the sky does not demur, no, it flutters its wings
Contrasting moon's behavior, still maneuvering strings
Of a missing satellite to a brain without criteria
whose neurons might make friction and ignite

The area

Of rind surrounding just one's mind
(never cure the incurable)
Has burst open like a chest piece pierced
(found a cult incurable)
by the prime example of, well, a great disease

The area

Of whatever you call unease
(strike your calls like thunderbold)
has burst open to reveal a heart
(and never make it stop)
beating the regard for my left-right-upper parts

I've been forged in silent fire, through the hands of a blacksmith so cold
The iron would take weeks to heat up, but i invite you to stay and behold,
for every job well done does require a reward
Still,
They could have kept me live and waiting for a response to my wailing
but they just gave me a hand i knew I'd fold

For every card in my
hand is representative
(never leave the rooms combined)
of another concept broken down
by a Missing Self that has yet to be found

Therefore I hold
a million possibilities
(abandon memory in books of old)
in a hand that isn't mine
In a Dreamer's skull box poised on edge
of a fragile crumbling mine

The light

Has vanished long ago
(it's about to liquefy)
Before I knew I had one heart
and two chambers, one for finish, one for start

[°°°'''°°°]

It really doesn't take me as long
to understand this as it did with myself,
for I've never found a reason to
accuse a self of treason, in my specific case because it wasn't planned

I have built a box to sleep in
It's cardboard and rotten teeth and dreams
It bites the inside of my cheeks when I fall asleep
and it kinda makes it easier to breathe

And in my Nightmare there is a castle
(forgive them)
And I am the Nightmare itself
(forget it)
And the host is my projection
of a safe and sane infection
of a fungus that just happens to be called

Rot
And chained to a chair, there, sits
(never leaving, never old)
mummy of a petrified martyr
arose from the intention to be

(I'd like to call it)
Rot
Has fractioned up my consciousness
Ruling the perception in me
Ultimating, alternating an alternative impossible to leave

for an Altered
state of mind will always be
(call me too delusional)
what makes my world go round
Prayers never, ever lose their sound!

Yet if you just howl
them out for long enough
(eventually they'll vanish leaving) room for all their damage and they'll
dart over your head open and (sliced up),
we will never part!

They
have waited too long for this
a union far too commonly mistaken for departure
(customary to their dreary fairly usual plan of action)

Eerie, as one can seem to see
let the blood never go stale over one too many pumps beyond the veil
(hail the nightmare)

In one heart, it's two parts, separated and apart, one's for finish and the other one's for start
(Plus a vein that doesn't work
and an artery now blocked)