The Sermon of the Self

Autumn wrapped a sour head tight past a hoop of fire, Leaving behind a messy petrol insignia in it's waste. That stain: me, truly. Me: past thee stony rubbish What is it, that rubbish? Past out, just there, beside all those Mangled hearts and bumpy, prickly things; Past all those broken dreams--past that field of garbage. What is Autumn? Leaves? Trees? Brown; flakes of ashes? No... Now look at me--the appendages on my flesh--these worthless mucus dripping sores... Look at me. I truly am, organs and all--depression--a bit more than a frown-- An octopus fits my hand like gloves tailored out of stone. Dragging ye sun down into the depths of dark, victums dressed in sparks; Now pale, frail, and now dead. Drag O lord it grabbeth me down O lord it grabbeth la