Self: an assassination of Character.

That I should have been labeled like a bottle
With such a notice as to be; Toxic in all my ways.
Or religion would rather have had me, As I am,
Wood Green, as in the mornings, like I was New.

Regarding of how I came to flat line,
Becoming rigid and morbid.
I had been living like I had already departed.
Or by feeling fallen, despair!
I was drawn ever more closer
Towards the edge of the death pit.

My emotions were long since spent.
I stagnated in an unfathomable stasis.
I had been astonished at how I had become.
Unlike when I walked you to your house,
Then back lame, returning home.
That strength may even then, have been my weakness.

I had many times been called both strong and wrong,
By huricaine winds I was blown off course.
In my youthfulness,
And by my wavelength,
I had out lasted my long dated dream,
To be eternal and with you.

My love never once being spilled on your linen

Was corroded by my urgency, thence to my mortal grave.
I had made my guarded commitment,
However, long before you, that I am indeed dead at the core, false even beyond this Necropolis.

© 2014 -18 Christopher Thompson All Right Reserved

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