In a Pit at Wit's End

Stir crazy with an anchor to condemn

me to the depths of whatever, wherein

I might have been left to fester if not

for my hatred of the smell of the rot.

I'll wield my shackles like two morning stars;

careless of the blood I spray while swinging,

ringing the changes by cast iron flail

and lusting for guts to rend with my nails.


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