Ill

Stitches,
right up the side,
right to my eye,
right through the iris,
right through the brow.

Poison,
up from my throat,
straight from my bones,
straight from my lungs,
the sun turns to stone,
the wind burns to come.

My brain is a silver soup,
stirred up in my skull.
The brain stem feels like a simple tool,
to bang the golden drum.

The red and gray
is thick and wet,
it causes all my gut to churn.
Once the gong is sounded off,
the world begins to purge.