There is no desire in me anymore,

no lust for truth.

There is no need for acceptance, or recovery

or trust in you.

I have seen death,

but I know such life

and I know good people

and I know what is right.

I know.

The cynicism inside me,

the anger and acrimony used to

circle in thick pools around my head before

it ceased to be.

As subtle as a derailed train.

Now, I feel very little

as I watch them

pilfered,

pocketed

by thieves in robes

with precarious ideologies

and crosses around their necks.

His lips will curl sweetly

as I leave his domain,

but I'll leave it to his imagination

why I will never participate in his

game.

I used to lust for a change,

a revolution of sorts, in my mindset.

But it never came and I'm losing faith

in myself, not just the rule books

on the archaic shelves

beside plug sockets

and mobile phones,

cigarette lighters

and disordered, problematic me.

His blunt eyes follow me

and the room echoes his gaze,

I'm the only one here with an itch to satisfy

and I have such potential

to be a good disciple.

Their faces are cold and upon me

like a blizzard against glass

and it makes me shiver

and it makes me remember.

But however cold it feels up here,

It's comforting to know

that Hell has an adequate heating system

and I won't have to hide beneath this coat.

But I've been told that I'll be found

how ever far I sink.

How much longer of a genuine life

do I have, how much longer do you think?

Make it quick.

Flick the pages

open

and condition me.

My mind is as open

as the wreckage after a storm

and it's uncertain whether I'll be willing

to accept this life as a norm.

So smile sweetly, father

and put on that gown,

spin your golden thread to me,

Rumpelstiltskin.

Burn me or let me drown.