Darkness floods, dreams that wake a fragile, eggshell mind,
the Lizard King’s words consume one.
Circles of foreboding torture
in the future
bending the heavy branches of madness into stark realism.
Pieces of the frozen sky fall,
little bits of purity land on my tongue
and bury me in earth’s cold womb.
A simple act,
like poetry in hand along an endless, empty road.
Fills the soul, quiets the mind.
the good times are killing me.