In the webs of my past
I roam imprisoned,
Bound in chains of unbelief and unreason.
In my inactions and inertia,trapped.
Tormenting my soul,with its laughter crude,
Pain rules,A warden brute.
I will sing of this pain
Like a titled mourner’s hymn,
Even though in vain.
I will curse its searing sting,
That has thrust my beign
Into willows of epileptic throes
And crippling athritic woes.
This pain gloats and grows,
Though hard i try to drown it,
In bottles of intoxicating spirits.
Its venom like a strong tide flows,
Spilling forth rivulets of insidious shings.