The road is quiet, and still
It calls me, I answer
That those nights were the first
Debts I incurred, shorn
Of pen and paper, lost in the darkness
Framing languid branches
Crisp leaves brushing my face
Sweaty, and tearful
As I stagger home, dripping on the road
That barely formed homoousion
Prematurely thrust into being
A king enthroned as a child
Who dies anyway, choleric, and I entered
My afterlife, in the bosom
Of drunken youth I sat overweaned
On the bitter, lonely carcinoma
Each drag/swig
A libation for the empty god
Who kicked me out of the comforting
Womb of nothing, the warm place
Of un-ideas
I saw it in the open sky that night
I waddled the road home, Old Spice barely touched
Friends back there, somewhere
Powerless against the junk
That is hate.
@nepion_boreas17
