AORTA APOCALYPSE

chaos breathes a cold and

cleansing air across the surface

of this stunted immoral world where

all the futures we did hope for

never came and we’re to blame

for never coming together again

and making amends for all this

constipated pain a trauma

burned into our veins and its

enough to black out now to

cut the cord and check out

back away from the screen and

all its glimmering atrocities that

only seem to speak the truth

where we could have gone

or when it would improve

the way I feel is not enough

to make things return

to where they were

so I am apothecary of myself

a scientist that earned his stripes

in knowing every inch of me

and to hell with all else

I’m so familiar with my own

shortcomings and horrific

overtones and overtures I’m

bleating on the phone

pleading for you

all the while bleeding for

anything new

any sensation that

doesn’t turn my black heart blue

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