Something is slowing me down.
It makes its way through my arms,
And through these fatigued worn fingers
In fury-fevered lashings of the claw.
I somehow manage to gain the strength it takes
To emit its evils onto the page.
Blood-soaked desperate one-sided attempts
Into the chill of all words.
Let the sloth be told of horrid torment,
To watch him plagued in thought for all of our years.
In every time a star of hope is shining its regards
As a sparkle of vain mockery,
In these pained attempts of self-alleviation.
To convert from the monster.
