deepundergroundpoetry.com
Better
Maybe it's better that I don't make sense...
I'll die to see the truth and nothing else.
Something just shy of which I would repent -
A feeling drawn like blood in better health.
Confined and better off, I rot my bones
In vain, I tell myself, so it feels right
An urgent ending, these days I condone.
It ponders me why night skies aren't as white
as deathbeds and the sheets they firmly grasp
like arms from God or something more worthwhile.
My hand in hands, I feel myself collapse.
A tear on each lip, such a bilious file
It's better now that senseless voices stay
in shadowed people, keeping strife away.
I'll die to see the truth and nothing else.
Something just shy of which I would repent -
A feeling drawn like blood in better health.
Confined and better off, I rot my bones
In vain, I tell myself, so it feels right
An urgent ending, these days I condone.
It ponders me why night skies aren't as white
as deathbeds and the sheets they firmly grasp
like arms from God or something more worthwhile.
My hand in hands, I feel myself collapse.
A tear on each lip, such a bilious file
It's better now that senseless voices stay
in shadowed people, keeping strife away.
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