the sharp puncture of a long lost illusion.

my brain feels convoluted, even stupid

mending these incisions, those delusional decisions.

some days you cry for help,

to release you from hell

and tyrannize, again

from your sinful citadel.

temptation be my mistress

staring through iced iron bars

ironically it is me,

who is your prison guard.

though my position may strand me alone,

I demand it.  

otherwise we lay together grieved by a concrete stone.

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