[Soulstice]

The pen turns to rubble in a struggle with misery
repeating mistakes across a reductionist history
A sense of nothing is limiting - constrained when defined
By the placement of rhymes..... shaping my lines
Night feels saintly, divine. And when the vigor is felt
I take up the suicide mission meant to figure me out
Soon a bit of liquor compels to turn to the diffident shells
In my peripheral.. & play Mr. Infinite Svelte
Glasses clink, we're laughing quick to depart from sobriety
Life imitates art - I've mastered the art of society
As apartheids garnering apathy - we sip Singapore Slang
She giggles between kittenish whispers..
But I couldn't think of her name, due to the residual rot
from this saturnalia swelling and beginning to pop
And from there where do we go?
Back to the stack of coffins by D Street. Pardon the honesty
But my morning commute consists of garlic and coffee beans
And my nights more of the same.. a haunting endlessness
Monitored by my daunted penmanship - all of it. senselessness
A waste of my time, another grave shift while raving at night
Another matrix of lights, superficial serenade of the mind
And another piece of prose to note my corporeal decline
All while I wait to see you in the corner of my eye