My all in ruins,
my inner sailing in a lonely space.
Will I ever turn to face
the body’s burnt necessity? Here,
there are squalls and squalor,
which I’m much too squeamish for.
The door is open,
the lock is broken.
Everything I’ve spoken poorly of
swarms the room and dooms me
to repeat the same several thoughts
I’ve ever had.
Born under a bad sign.
A dazzling gloom, commencing.