The World Inside Me
The futile toss of the wind,
The pallid bog beneath my feet;
Doesn't confide me—at least relief—
Exuberant—not anymore
Means to plunge a shrilling catastrophe
Need not to elicit the bliss in the days of yore;
For it may rapture me
Yet—wind—comprised of prickle bristles and everything,
Sink deep within my veins and skin
Ye blanched moor—so empty,
Do vamoose, It's all in me
- CYBI
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Ꭾ০εᙢ₰
PoetryJust a compilation of totally not dark poems written by a very sane and totally mentally stable person
