Kamikabe Only The Dead Rest
This horrid fever bloated shell is beginning to squeeze
my brain too tight. By
miserable dreams entranced. Bleeding for these eyes to
remain shut in darkness.
In this conscious cycle I am trapped. Spare me this
transient surge of chemical
nausea, mimicking contentedness. Pressed into my
forehead, these fingertips
fail to comfort my mind. Comatose descension. My psyche
withers and cracks as
the worm naked to the burning sun. Razor lined parasites
that trace their way
through my brain. I have harbored this virus inside my
mind my whole life,
wallowing in a pool of vomit. Inside my skull thoughts
grow sore and begin to
decay, infected, swollen, and bursting. My jaw tightens
into a clench. Cranial
pulse escalates to a pounding throb. I turn my focus
inward, to be relieved by
perpetual void. For we cannot attain in life the
adoration we receive in death.
I am glad to have died, and now that I am gone, I know
only the dead truly
rest.
