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


quietly i sit outwardly

humming while my frozen

world dissipates into shards.



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© Melt Magazine 2001