Deathbed Not Even Your Own

Let me fall...
My burnt dry thoughts,
Like leaves...
I am..
- Falling...

Into my sole self of surrealism
It welcomes me once more...
Like flashes of kaleidiscopes of Life..
Ressurecting, - lethargic..

Yet this deathbed awaits...
Leaving me dry
Sucked out of sweetness...

There I see
My constellation wavers...
Here, I lay dead...
Death's cold hands
Numb upon me...

Sighs of Lilith cold
I lay in this deathbed...
Of hot coals, dried thoughts...
- Dried soul..

I pity you, soul...
So unfortunate...
..In this hellish abyss..
Stabbing, bleeding me dry..
- I can not be as I am...
Wanting, wishing
While I see my sole surrealistic world
I so longed for...
..outside...
'Neath trees and ocean's breath...
---yet, I pity you, soul...
Enslaved in a deathbed
Not even your own...

Burnt Thoughts

"Let me fall...
My burnt dry thoughts, like leaves...
I am falling...
Into this deathbed not even my own
Suffocating, wasting away into deay to rot
Sucked out of sweetness..
Maggots in wound,
Yet not feeling
Leaving me stabbed, bleeding dry,
Numb -- to schizophrenic suicide.."

-- Looking over through stained glass windows into my sole surrealistic world then, I was basically sleepwalking through... And yet, I am here. Battles have been won. Seeking not for the gift - not what you have been given nor what you will receive. Seeking for the Giver Himself -- that is how raging battles are fought with, head on. The Giver is more than enough.

"I gathered my burnt ashen thoughts,
Traded it into the Potter's hand
...breathing again.
Saccharine, pleasant fragrance.
Flesh, where wounds were - undone.
Maggots - none found.
Molded, firm, alive."