ascetic

Accepting self-made squalor mess of a man. From one eye they saw you fall and brought the whole world down with you. But not the real world.

Fire escapes outside your gloomy melting window and beds that pull down from hidden in the papered walls provide you secret respite when you're playing miserable, pacing hallways soaking up those dark voices others put their velvet hearts in boxes to avoid. Delicate wooden forms which were always meant to sweetly rot, to change form in erosion of touch and return to block, and to decay and to be loved to slime, you have found the relentless, ignorant will to petrify. Dreaming modern ascetic, you have only delusions until those magic words you suffer for, day in night others suffer, pleading, to search you out are finally enlightened in dusk, by a lifetime for a line, paintings of a thousand eternal ideas that were already tangible somewhere outside.

Your pants are rolled up. No love poem.

Windows opaque, after all.

The keys are turned to dust.