There's one more hasty retreat,
a laceration hard to treat
a salve, a flask, a hard red sweet
to lessen what was done.
A spoonful more should do the trick
another swig, hot sharp and quick
a pull until there's only slick
glass, where fullness used to be.
Contended sighs, I'll never breath,
fluid placebo bitter sweet,
a terrible harmonic beat
to swallow up the ache.
These portents are not absolute,
nor this sentiment resolute,
the heavier thoughts persist, pollute
and rot I, in my stand. |
Submission Name: Through Filter, Obsidian
