Poetry From The Weakened Soul
Author: Neil Evans

Chapter 138
Cold, Self-Destructive Remains

Two cheap movie theater tickets,
A bottle worth of life's regrets,
Sugar-coated with the shrouding mist,
In the end, I'm the one to get pissed.
So I just keep watch, and the film reels,
Like a finely cut orange, without the peel.
And my life becomes split and disintegrated
Everything feels so very overrated.
Do you think that, maybe, we could try?
While the angels, the heaves seem to cry.
Up above our heads, the morning reeks,
As the sun creeps over the mountain peeks,
And the shadows dance across the floor,
Suffocate me, you're a fucking whore!
And still the film takes me back, in reverse,
I can only envision the creation of the universe!
Until, suddenly, it all flashes before me,
And the ocean runs into a bloody sea.
Coursing through my veins is the forever,
Because we know that you can never
Break free from these stranded chains.
But, slowly, my interest fains,
To more pressing matters than that of
My cold, self-destructive remains.


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