Lucid stains of dreams echoing defying gravity
with shadows of the dark bird. In this void 
decaying memories touching the ribcage of
my mind. Reflecting the ice that burns
through the floor dragging me down
toward the throat of the night.

With the ghost of my quill still wet from
the inkpot, the silence stretches into a wire
taut between my lobotomy. Disintegrating into
insanity, a narcissistic butterfly shrinking
into darkness, stillborn.

In the cavern of my soul exhaling a sound
too fragile to voice from the chalice of
my demise in the hollows of my hands screaming
from the pages of my Odyssey.