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.