Pickled Cynicism

I set the spikes outside the

field of my experience; casting out

nets to fish out pearls of thought,

hidden in the sewers of insanity.

The smell of the death-of-mind

brings back memories of lifetimes

long past... Trapped in the core

of consciousness; alone with the

demons of alternate identity that

dwell in every subconscious

metropolis.

I endure in a fractured

countenance; unable to reach back

and seize the source of the poison

which spices my individuality...

the memories sealed in a place I

can no longer discover.

Hence I hear flats in sharp

progression, and now the unlikely

combination of Seroquel and

caffeine put my faculty under the

avalanche of cruel cowardice; and I

take my repose in pickled cynicism.

[19:22|02.11.011] ©c.thomas.carter