Upon the wet rock, my mind's tide collapses, 

Fingers numb and

Quickly crushed by hoofs of my 


A possession assumed temporary

As why should priests pray

When my own cross drowns me

For I am weak.

Not a branch in my tree, but mere twigs

Broken and unfixable

Sprawled willingly before

A crimson visage of Hamlet

Wearing my own mask,

And, should my own horns break in my back,

I shall put myself on trial

Though hours pass, I stay on the rock




My handmade illness

I feel a demon's weight

Born by others

Who blame me for such a wretch

While onyx water and floating stars slap my legs

As my digits snap

I look through rainy stained glass

Upon a sleep, and I'm worried

To sleep,

To dream,

And by a sleep, I let loose my body's guard, 

Inviting the scarlet mirror to tear at my blood

Though I am told my waters are clear,

I feel the rapids 

My eyes bear witness to a

Goat on broken twigs

And I hear my demon cry

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