|
Something is slowing me down |
|
It makes its way through my arms |
|
And through these fatigued worn fingers |
|
In fury-fevered lashings of claw |
|
I somehow manage to gain the strength it takes |
|
To emit its evils onto the page. |
|
Blood-soaked desperate one-sided attempts |
|
Into the chill of all words |
|
Let the sloth be told of horrid torment |
|
To watch him plagued in thought for all of our years |
|
In every time, a star of hope is shining its regards |
|
As a sparkle of vain mockery |
|
In these pained attempts of self-alleviation |
|
To convert from the monster |
