I came across a sorrowful husk
Slumped against a locked gate
Ringed with trash cans and bottles
I looked at it, mere doll of life
That virile tongue rubbed to silence
In the crunched palm I imagined
The sharp snares and fitted gloves
Those arms that carried and needed carrying
On the face, the eyes peeled a touch
Dried deltas of salt from tears
Eyes that held the brightest smile
And pictured faraway darkness
Glossy tendrils from then on
Had curled around the troubled heart
Joining the night in a screwed up
Muffled cry, blunted and layered over
With the fog of age, or the mist
Summoned by the most basic fear
Banish the ability to remember
Then choke growth, unable to lift
The brakes to sally unto other pastures
I crouched beside the husk, sad fate
Perhaps, a new age pauper's grave
I felt an emptying of anguish onto
The husk, where I could store my own blood
My own scattered course and ill preparation
To you may I gift my crimson palette
Murals and graffiti of loathing
To you may I gift my reactive thirst
The bottomless wellspring of entropy
To you may I gift my welded fear
Ten thousand and more days collected
To you may I gift my sickness sore
Wounded by lying in a sickening time
To you may I gift my gnashing fire
Yet to burn finally the world itself
I stood and left the husk, brimming
With the aches and felt what then
When all waking moments were to accrue
For a kenotic libation and orison
To the living husk I had now become.
@nepion_boreas17
