Dickinson downs a cocktail

The demon in me—bored—
upon the passive train—
alive, when dying best
is writ on cockled face—
how imprisoned in the feast—
the demon in me traced
its needs in languages
of sin—the tedium—
the aging of the cell—
happy Death arrives
too late—a newfound hell
as such antiquity never had—
the brunt of youth
awards its guilt the bitter blend—
when better-able thought
is crippled in the gap—
the demon in me keeps pristine
its inner workings—as—
the outer body fails—
its hundred tails a-wag—

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~ by Jeremy on June 9, 2013.

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