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Dredge of death


CynicalGuitarist
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Isolated.

Encompased.

Stuck at the bottom.

Imprisoned in the core.

 

Down in my 30-foot mud-lined dredge of lonliness

my cold, watery, untamed grave of depression,

I tie another defective noose,

anxiously awaiting my demise.

 

As the water flows in, I reminisce

of days where I invisioned what never was or will be,

o my innocence; how I covet it so,

as I seal my fate of liquid glass,

shedding the remnants of my soul.

 

In the final moments of my own mortality, I see

why this martyrism must unhinge my chains;

As God's pet, I prefer myself put to sleep,

rather than be eaten by the inevitable tumor within.

 

Here I be; God's pet rat,

dying another premature, ghostly death.

Praying for rain, the injection of salvation

as my brothers; those beggars, thiefs, liars, and incorrigibles

smirk at another veal's slaughter.

 

Here comes the water...

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