Through the penman’s eyes, I see wisps of black smoke lick the bottom of my soul as I rise,
never too high
lifted to powerless heights above the tower of mortality.
Rings and things less divine left wasted on the tip of my tongue, as I cough out a lung and decline.
Silver threads of self loathing spin masterful swirls and twirls of feigned relaxation and quiet death. Living here in this morally reprehensible space in time is no longer living.
This home, these cells, these walls, these plates and cups crash in waves of black ash and congested chests of drawers.
As its mental foundation crumbles and quakes beneath the wickedness of the very idea of succumbing to an actual vice, the heart, lungs, and true soul of the penman spins on.
Forever weaving and stirring the witches brew. Black ink coursing through leather bound and paper lined veins. I see the penman and know the truth.
To have no vice but words, unspeakable is the crime.
I stand firm in my conviction of my conviction, my punishment is…
-B. Poree’ © 2016
Submitted for WordPress Writing Prompt Challenge