If you ask how am I today, I might tell you—
Darkness growling like the dead, a sad weed or a burned tree. My fingers ache each day
to feel the autumn on fire. Like mordacious nails, scratching the inside of my conjured mind. I know, you might feel nothing. Speechless?
Oh, pluck my skin, see the inner scratch, that is my scream.
Hidden in the ball of vexation, my lips drifting apart, to say thy name.
My pale eyeballs feeling the dead dreams. Oh, how dark, can you see?
I am a hideous soul of stale flesh and paralysed hymns, still surviving.
I am stale lotus blooming in the eyes of the razor-layered body.
©My Valiant Soul