The Den

This den we found
Remains too silent
Forcibly so
To avoid the dormant
Violent kinds
Of latent foes
Silent still
Too stilly was the wind
Until a chilly blow
Carried the shrill of a crow

This den is too warm
And my head, too worn
I have a place here for sleep
Although I cannot catch a wink
Trying to reach that peak
My body murkily at the brink
Circling the sink
I still cling to the same shit
That was pulling me in

There are cracks in the folds of the den
And rats in the walls of my head
Except for the ghostly tracks of light
It’s mostly black in the halls of the dead
With a shaky paw I pack the pipe
And hold it to my cracked lips again

Tongue rubbing raw
Ripe with oral sores

And the rats in my head
Follow, follow
The tune of the pipe
This doom I invite

A tune I thought to decree
Unaware it was the pipe who played me    
Braking morality
Mistaking my greed momentarily
For a breed of ill begotten creed  

And the rats in my head
Nibble, nibble
Tiny bites that quiver and ripple
Come on quickly then linger
So sickly and brittle
I sit and I shiver
Clutching my fistful of death as it beckons
This crystal blessing twisted decrepit
Is touching the heavens
Only to fall and to cripple
In some dankest darkest of crevasse