Tipping, and sipping,
goblets of cyanide (an agonizing ride).
The rip in my tongues,
shivers on heated lungs,
the parade of swords unto my theatric part,
back to the river of unwanted art.
A gaze upon the stars;
her face, distaste,
salty masquerade of my final breaths,
the insomnia birthed on prayers for death.
And on the horizon,
a darker sun slowly rising,
then setting on heartache,
into a dreary night sky.
Her hands were dipped in red,
from a heart she ripped and bled,
and the agony plastered my very skies.
Blanketed by pure forms of dark,
an ocean of memories upon I drift my Ark,
with background music from hoarse choras, composing lies.
And I've bathed in ash,
choked on the fleeting dust,
that poured from my veins,
severed by jagged shards tainted by rust;
the aging endlessly remembering my pains.
