Barren, first, the golden nest. The budding breast.
Bloated with mystical imaginary
potential that paused in glory with thoughts of ghosts, fled.

The ebbing, unknown wound.
The disfigured prison of resonant debauchery;
seeping through cracks, corroded with mold.
Blissfully ignorant insanity.

Misled prayers for sunshine in the hopeless,
Godless cathedral of rapid time. like a tsunami of death,
a roaring river of blood.
Drowning the life out of all that was good.