To fail the escape of the foul swamp
In the company of a troll so foul
With stagnant water sitting abound.
When pooled and gathered with purpose
soon falls over shy, as blue gold turns green.
There brown bodies of rich soil fall gray
Where life comes to end itself.
Bask in pools of false progress and full of empty promise
Where misery suffers and shall soon lay dead.
Destroyed by the empty shell dubbed apathy
A signified loss of light, with fog as foul of breath which rises and falls.
Along lackluster breeze, if ever a place to fall came about, this was it
A lost and hollow bastion held amid bogs and swampy nightmares.
Curled about by viscous waters of lurid pond scum
Coiled by tendrils of failure to move.
Never has there been a place so fitting for failure, left only to sink unto oblivion.
Finding venture in a dark place, all one can see is something that is lost, in a quiet echo. There’s nothing that can work, if anything its always a pale loss. But at this low point, I’ve found some solace in this move, it is right here. The very thing that makes me feel fantastic, for nothing tastes as great as a bitter pill if it can be shared right with the world.