At The Door

What is the end,
But you at death’s door
Your eyes pale to the moon
Your lips
Barren of moisture
Blister upon flesh,
A scream of agony
A breach of sanity
The adolescence torn
Cursed,
To the hallows of darkened visioned
The epics of Thorned wings
Incapable of peace
Of quiet
Of vision of grace,
The end,
Is you alone
Coward upon cold stone
A gamblers fold
For dealer
Be creator
You fidget
As if not to be known
But mirrors cake the morning rise,
Your eyes.
How deeply they try
To hide,
The truth of the mind
Poised fortunes of man
Feeble tries,
But no man of harrow can escape
It’s an end before you can pretend
The pharmaceuticals
Be the Novocain
The Valium
The drugs to mask denial
A cloud of fumes
Hues,
A sky built by the coward
His structure
The cylinder
The dried-up canister,
The end,
Is you crying before the all creator,
Desolate soils bridging heaven and hell
A desert of even thirsty cacti,
A broiled soul,
How hardened one has become
The waters evaporate upon the sands
Cultivation was left to the bitter.
So springs, up the arid
The dry the vapid,
Here walks death
As you feared not,
Now swings the gavel
It echoes through
The lands of your terrible.