The Death of Me by James Eagalwulf
Saturday, 8 August 2009

Bellowing, sequential tears puddle upon my resentful blood.
I periodically bathe in their unanimous disgust, magnanimous with trust.
However, my shadowy cynicism soon imprisons me, sporadically.
My forced smile disintegrates rapidly, yet hysterically I laugh ecstatically.

An abundance of the benevolent fundaments of hope dies inconspicuously.
An individual whom individually suffocates is now visible to you visually.
Do extrasensory capabilities form an arborescence of imagination inside me?
Do my agnostic ideologies corrupt society’s abrupt images, at least slightly?

Reality’s grasp unnaturally recedes, so I intensely gasp and analyse what breathes.
Intuitively, I foresee myself collapse, questioning the scraps of likelihood times elapse.
Labels cannot articulate my created origins, as heated as the flames I am swallowing.
Fables, as mythological as my unfocused dreams, spew upon a table of hopeless screams.

Manipulative lies seduce puppets of totalitarians, lost within the historical shelves of librarians.
I am rambling and gambling my remaining sense, over-processing through questionable contents.
Nightly, still desperately pondering, I successfully complicate a simple wondering.
Effortlessly, I abuse my well being, my brain will be the death of me.


© James Eagalwulf