than controlled chaos;
all hours within spent my breath
are graveyard shifts, to me.
"Discord," is clearly worse than hell,
than "proper" ways of being:
it deadens the corpse;
it silences the mute,
and brings about the snowy
the slow crawl of days
and estranged from reality;
is reduced to
a "comatose" heartbeat,
the "comatose" woman suffocating as she "sleeps,"
and the frost begins to collect around my toenails,
dead yet still forced alive.
I turn my gaze up to the clouds and know,
with an "unwell" longing in my eyes
that the End of Days is far off,
but in existence,
and this knowledge brings me some false sense of peace.
The end of Days is a Blessed thing.