I'm a horrid poet...but something made me write this...
The creeping fog of loathing swirls up into my soul again and again. Much like the viper of old, whose head can be severed in one stroke, and yet does its scaly and cold body rise and thrash, undying, through the underbrush, as if attempting to flee from the wound which has already stolen its life.
So to does the fog rise into my soul, headless and without direction, yet teeming with an unnatural life as if it too is seeking a place where it can once again reside in my body and steal that which I have discovered. Again and again, it does attempt to steer me from the path I have taken into the sun. It seeks to turn my soul to the dark and damp places of old, those areas were decay, hatred and fear can once again consume me and reduce me to the shattered wreck that is so familiar.
I am tired.