A rotting soul

A rotting soul

a rotting soul—

the voices nev'r cease.

at which hour i did lie to rest,

t's thee i seek

to feeleth some semblance of peace.

though i’m nay longer hither,

nay longer in thy arms,

i miss thy warmth—

but not thy hands,

not thy visage,

not the harm.

i miss the idea of you—

the pieces i did invent,

the memories i forged,

wishing they'd beest cement'd.

i wanteth to punch thee,

then kiss thee in the same breath,

forget, forgive—

but weakness still clings

to the edge of regret.

i misprise thee f'r what thee didst.

but then again,

we wast only so young,

trying to liveth

with words hath left unsung.

am i did allow to hold

thy future in chains?

to bind t with threats

of hot, hissing teen?

to burn thy skin

like thee brand'd mine?

wherefore.

wherefore doth i miss thee

one moo time?

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