Sitting, I drink my black brew
that calms me my gullet through.
Shifting, I think of failures been;
in my veil I ponder them furiously.
Shivers jar my ganglions,
and insects swarm the ground I'm on.
No thrust of fear's insanity
yet breaks my feverish reverie.
I'm at the mercy of the black brew
that culls me to obscured view,
taunting me with dreadful suggestion -
resin of mentally ill digestion.
Drifting through a disheartening fog -
taking will's journey to where it belongs:
Cognic fathoms that I press upon,
context of progress, forgotten long.
I sleep in the enchantment of the drink,
leaving above me everything.
Into the sheaths of mud I sink,
deep to fathoms where I'll think.
Deep beyond life's reverberations,
below its sober hallucinations,
where truth flows in naked concentration,
in rivers of black brew's condensation.
Sleeping, I am your black brew,
calming you your gullet through.
Unshifting, I am the failures been,
and the veil that your fury breathes…
…sinking inconceivably deep,
to the river that is your final sleep…