Flirting With Death

Crippled by a force from the pulsing in my veins, I began melding into a fetal bow.

Grinning at the encroached idiocy of a depth dove to tempt mortality.

Chasing an escape from the elites herding, of a repetition known as reality.

Enslaved to a pain out of reach, that we need, or else believe.

On the descent to hell, I’m anxious to embrace a flirting with death.

Yet only thorns remain as the blood-soaked petals fall to a colorless decay.

A nightmare depicted by the purposeless identity, promoting egotistical reprieve.

Only the followers of sin may drink from gardens of legend.