Dark, Desperate Deeds.
Desperation hangs off my limbs like Spanish moss,
draped across rough bark and skin.
How can I say yes to a dark room with no promise of return?
Mystery leads us to do such horrid things.
An empty, gaping hole in my core allows air to escape.
Oxygen seeping out, oxygen barely squeezing in.
When will I learn to enjoy such putrid air?
Mystery leads us to think such horrid things.
Omit the evil from your leaves and dangle, lingering.
Swirl down to greener pastures, or to the cold cement.
What awaits us when we depart from the only home we’ve ever known?
Mystery leads us to know such horrid things.
