A wakeful slither
in the silky wool of gloom.
River runs dry,
and overwhelms me
slanting towards an untold sickness.
Nothing is sacred
when a warped mind's in bloom.
Sunder the prey,
soon end will seize thee
who shed on me this veil of blankness.
It's out of hand now,
tribal pourings damp the wound.
Moulding the clay
into the shape of a collapsing
drown ocean.
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