Fell

Trudging, forever trudging
In dead grass, paths of circular discontent
Abridged existence of well worn failure
And the weight, the weight of what it meant

Separate and sin
Backwards steps to where it all began
Dull and dripping
Aging lump in the throat of a broken man

Thirty seven years and counting of crushing weight
Counting days and hours of self and selfish hate

The demons dwell upon the hill of every disappointment
They writhe inside the chest of discontent
Red eyes burn, as heaving excavation endlessly roams
Empty and alone, to face the doomed ascent to final home



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