When the crimson cloud blooms.

 
Alone with my sorrow
and a carbon coated spoon
I forget about tomorrow  
once the crimson cloud bloom.
A tourniquet to stop the bleeding
of severed thoughts in the act of breeding.
My rotting veins distending, swollen with doom
I get a taste of the grave
when the crimson cloud blooms.
It's a kiss of bliss concealed in a pin prick,
too much or too little will both leave me sick.
An entire lifetime of love is consumed
when I push in that plunger
after the crimson cloud blooms.
These tracks guide the train straight to the station,
a derailing collision of mind numbing sensation.
Tank treads designed to exhume
all the tragedy and horror
when the crimson cloud blooms.
In the land of Nod I have nodded to death
and that death rattle resides
within each rasping breath.
I am flotsam adrift in the fetid waters of womb
and I find myself drowning
each time that crimson cloud blooms.
This insatiable gluttony has me pining for more
despite of this maelstrom devouring the shore
and this torrent has taken me straight into the tomb
and never again will that crimson cloud bloom.