Peyote Angel, Withers 11

Somehow I’ll do this on my own.
This reconnection.
Hand on this scalpel.
Seen it.
Trauma only excites me and I am my evidence
as perfectly one.

Something’s burning behind the cage.
Just have to set her free.
No it’s not the potion.
The drugs, the poison.
The fruit from your Judas Tree.

The Shaman tells me how to cut.
Eyes connected.
Blood to the dust
and mutilation is a rite of passage.

I must be out of this mind!

Fingers in the cavity.
Right through the center.
Lies a mirror, to the inner, self-inflicted,
warning sickness, Earthly tremors,
So sadistic.
Walls of mirrors.

(I see what I don’t want to see…)

Cause I’m a dying fish swimming in the
purest of waters.
And I’m a silent example of how it
should somehow never be!
And I’m, so conflicted,
from this, goddamned weakness,
and I can’t remember,
if anything is real!

I must be out of this mind!

One soul fighting, one last cell,
killing arteries to starve the
power to recall, in my,
own addicted, shroud of deepness,
in the chasm I have carved!

Right through.
Right here
I am I.
I do not mind if the fucking end is nigh!

Right through me!

Such bright lights and deafening wisdom.
Where would I be, without this crippling sensation?
Who says it is has to be so cognizant and simple?
Cut through every fucking muscle,
just to let the demons breathe.
And every photograph is cauterized,
I will slice right through my, last reminder,
kneel behind her–

Right through…
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