Later
#7
The fickle finger drags it’s nail across my brain,
And mocks me with the mirage of long lost pleasures.
They dance on my horizon, double dosed,
Unappetising.
The food the hand puts to my lips is ashes in my mouth.
Aura has a curious glow.
In taking, it has saved,
Myself.
To continue would be to die.
So this end has preserved the essence, of who I used to be.
Kismet shall unscramble me,
When Karma had, at first confounded me.
Rebuilt with, movement and chemistry of the soothsayers.
Pick back the scabs.
Reveal me underneath.
