Wreckage.

Tables turned Achilles heel

Torment a shaking fence of steel

Inside the mind a child is blind

The blood borne method isn’t kind 
Aches of youth demanding light

These memories derange tonight

You’re fucking aging faster here

The carbon imprints breathe like fear
Pale the skin in sad bereft

The moments only that I kept 

Pursuit the whispered voicing cage 

A deprecating faithless wage
Consider months I fathomed late

A choice so empty as this hate 

You’re eyes commiserate the dark

These doldrums I must now embark
Fables legs are shaming now

The preface backing up the how

A corresponding backwards hue

The filaments are delaying you
Stand a wash length from the past

These vacancies can never last

Thread vines to hearing every seed

Threats dine on empty when I need
Taper time towards the line

You draw it every single time

A threnody capable of pain

A singing scourge in me remain
No weaker man am I to be

When wreckage seems to pummel me

Inside the child the mind unwind

The blood borne method isn’t kind.
(C) Chris Vaughn

2016

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