There’s little grace in the aging of my internal gaze; engaged and swallowed by the void’s paralysing daze.
I sparked a few flames to light this black hole with amour, but it blazed through the lust and froze it into torpor. I landed a stint to fill it up with passion. But all that I was left with was emulation. Bought wine and whiskey to drown this gap out. It gobbled it all up and spat me out.
I now see the main mix for this mortar ought to be sourced from parts of me. And when this self cavity is satisfied and sealed, I will learn how to love, and how to work, and how to drink