Spinning,
like a top atop
an Everest of regrets,
where the rapids won’t beget
undue relief. The slowest
of self-cursings
and fingertips
split curling ‘round a barrel—
boarded up against
One grief—a loss
so masterful.
So
disaster-full, this
singular shindig set against
the salmon and the stream.
Cursed
by fits—yet fit to dream
of you, the sea
so deep, the love
for me,
the spider in the well.
I'm fit
to rip you
from anxious sleep,
to make you King
of jagged peaks,
and drag you down to Hell.
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