Tired of decomposing, dried up, my dreams are dozing,
My body has peaked the opus, through godly retreat,
I hope, trying to feel a pulse, a pariah that feels opposed,
Pinching my grip, controlling, picture my mind in solace.
Pitching and writhing, gritting and grinding my teeth to focus,
Witch-doctors reveal a poem, my palms have been reading growth,
Exhausted, my being’s broken, loathe signs that concede to smoke,
I need the tar to feed compulsions, exhaust that secretes emotions.
Tyrants as deacons, posing; Goliath as people cloaking,
A lion in sheeplings’ clothing, a tiger that feels repulsed,
About the lines that he sees his coat in, why do I feel insulted?
Sonnets revealed in quotient, to calm this conceited ghost,
But while I sleep, I know that the mind is a demon’s crow’s nest,
Fire that feeds ferocious, piles of sheathed explosives.