Routinely lark, though this day depth therein
bemused as why the warbling fluter turned
instilled and sung laments, residing within
and perched unkind; that brittler branches - spurned.

Melodic angst has never sprung so dim
and tunes of fathomed trebles; parted love?
Perchance the ballad pours a swansong hymn;
and from aloft the skies - returns a dove.

If song an' bird be taken dazed with stars
beliefs contort and bowing strings apart
nor stealth be known as fervent dwells the scars,
though bleak the lust for any other heart.

O' feathered, pennate cherub play her whim!
Remain upon the sill and bygones swim.

O' why am I that one without a nest?
I must love self enough to single 'lone,
I dare to not believe, for self-love's jest
It's likely Venus whom had left my throne.
A royal seat at sea with none in view
For deep the fairest swim, so knows the King
Whom fishes with no bait nor love *****
Without a depth of love to show or bring.
Could crown adorn a weaker, brittler core
Than outward form suggests of armored chest
Of thickened steel so made by love before.
I am that which had made a hermit best!

To all of whom I've blamed, and parted love
Forgiveness be, then I to self thereof.

content warning, body horror :3
note that this poem was written a year back

I hope you find your solace.

it's almost
ethereal
how I feel
no sensation
in my legs in my arms in my
dragging myself along the gravely, gritty sand, rubbing against blister and bruise, breaking open and closing as tides of pus and dune, day and night, as the waves and troughs of a tsunami, the gravely, gritty feeling in my throat, dehydrated, solace, oasis in sight? delirious, I can't tell mirage from reality, the lines are blurred and I can't see my hands, my hands, where are my hands? they're gone, who replaced my grippers with stumps, I'm not a tree, I'm not an animal, you can't chop me up and harvest my parts and please, spare me, spare me of the pain, pain, it hurts, can I drink blood? can I fuel myself with my own fluids leaking out of my servered flesh, exposed wiring and casings, a red, moist piñata with no candy inside, just a damp rag, smearing over the floor, creating a maroon, crimson coat lane line, can I find solace fueling myself with my blood? can I be a parasite onto myself, can I be a leech that drinks my own blood? can I, can I, can I find oasis? can I find rest, rest these bones, bones exposed to open air, it hurts, hurts doesn't even begin to describe how I'm feeling right now, I'm bleeding out and starving of thirst, thirst for rest, for oasis, for let the dead rest in peace, leave me alone, these dunes are my grave, my grace, my tomb of sandstone and perhaps the sands will shift and I'll be laid to rest, engulfed by the moving hills of the living desert. Is this solace? Will you remember

me?

will you chronicle this crawl, this forward breaststroke through the sand? chronical pain follows me, will you detail how I feel or skim over my pain, you aren't me, you don't know the sensation of sandpaper on soft skin, blasting against me, my empty, bony chest, my, my, my soul, will my soul find solace? will I rest in peace? am I on the final stretch, the last pitch? is this the crux, the wall stopping me from resting? is this the dam that blocks my swim forward? is this my grave?

Is this my solace?
Is this my redemption?

My skin, parchless parchment, saltbed, yellowed pages, stiffer then an old tyre, tired, ready to break like bare birch bark, buried bones, brittler then sandstone on suntanned plastic, the layers of fat and meat stacked like a strawberry creme layer cake, dried like chinese roast pork belly, chewy like slow-smoked beef jerky, stiff like expired instant ramen, brittle as peppermint-ginger bark, as hungry, starving, can I cannibalize myself if it keeps me alive? Am I a creature only staying alive for nourishment? Am I another human with no sense of morals or judgement? Am I another suffering soul stuck in a predicament that I can't repent, preventational measures don't have an effect, stuck in a forward crawl with no end in sight, is this the crossing of the Atlantic on only human hands? Is this the crossroads that reinvents the hard work and events that plague my descent? Oasis in sight, the lights get brighter, this struggle is nigh, the final pitch of cliff.

Is this my solace?
Is this my final feast?

Are my eyes tricking me? Are my goals, my dreams, are my needs and wants all a trick of the light, a mirage and nothing more? Is this momentum a stampede for nothing, nothing at all and nothing in particular, are there only shadows and slivers of meaning in the mound of dirt I call my ambition, the nameless but nothing, none? Is the pit that we burn our money in? is this the

sun seething, scratching at surfaces too
burns, breathing seems too hard to
see things, nothing clear anymore, blue
skies teething at my mind, loose
rock and needles stabbing my youth
see me, yelling at the earth, how pathetic it must hurt,
war crimes can't spare a dime, low-ball a nickel for some time
solace something, stillwater surface ripples
TRAN-