I had no initial intent when I began writing this, but I'm taking a wild guess in saying this isa poem about suicide.
Through valleys of scorched daggars and carbon spindles,
Fingernails and claws make their marks upon stone and skin
With the glint of eyes seen only within the folds of a cigarette ember.
The lament of the smoke rings and bottles is dry company,
Befriending with words not said and seed swallowed.
The surrounding dark only insulating urges, suffocating them.
Kick acquaintances aside, smothered in the ashtray,
Dig for an old comrade, as it had dug into the bowels of others
A straight face and dry eyes slice into the tender flesh,
Rummaging for vital organs, the ones that cry the most blood
The ones that wheeze when pierced and sliced through
Skin reddening along the uncauterized gash, digressing the blade
As a red rainbow vomits out, embracing the whiskey and wool
The glow of the clock cringes past 2am as asphault cushions face.
Intestines clutching to skin like ancient vines to a wall
Sighs let off like the life drained out to the stains upon the floor
Imbrued upon every fiber, with utter loathing tighter than a vice
The salty rains begin to sail, but only for nothing and nothing's past
To history's lost antiquities of a rusted soul, buried beneathe the oddities
Adorned in blackened lace and fragments of brittle bones
Blowing dust out of hair, staring into the cracks of broken glass eyes
Time stopped its march, now clawing at the walls of its grave
Burying itself deeper within fallen soil, less air to breathe
As the wide mouth slashed into the gut grimaces at it's martyr
Perhaps it is a smirk of self defeat or everyone else's vanquish.
Within this poetic mess, where shadows dwell and serephs cry,
I stopped giving a fuck.