The life and the magic bled dry
From hanging, sunken meat of being
A dusty ragdoll of moribund, nescient movement; glass orbs of eyes stare in sparkling emptiness
To die would be too great an expenditure, reserves mitigated with stinging whiskey and cathode rays
Too far to return to shore, too soon to drown
Slow, silent, hopeless, lightless at noon
Bloodless at midnight
The sky lacking awe
The wonder of it all now
Relative only to the monotony of
This spiritual drone
The living death of
This ashen rhythm