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waiting for the innards to stop disintegrating.
a pain so heinous, vomitus bile
is sweet as nectar.
so much churning, the angles
of descent impair all optical
perceptions askew.
i quake in my slumber,
not fitful, but awkward and restless.
there are no psalms or songs
to quiet my soul.
one such as this has no respite
from the battle of evils
fought from within.
so i wait with patience
and endurance,
quelling for the moment
a need to vivisect myself
in a gesture both grandiose
and pathetic.
for all the charms i possess
i cannot deflect the history
of my allegiance
with a part of myself
that no longer exists
and yet will not relinquish
its vehement and destructive
grasp.
quietly i sit outwardly
humming while my frozen
world dissipates into shards.
© Melt Magazine 2001
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