[ I contrive words to describe an illiterate arc of thought ]

I contrive words to describe an illiterate arc of thought,
confined to arbitrary meanings till the illustration's lost.
Exercise expression through abandoned buildings, vacant lots;
I'd revise my own admissions but this apathy has costs.
Every empty instinct waits for civil sanity to rot
and these distinctive traits are drivel vanity concocts.
Written keys unlock the fugue, compulsion's sleeper cell,
and terrorize this mind set right, made impulsively unwell.
Set alight, or set to die, in a mental basement room;
I'd prefer the lies before i'm dealt disjointed hints of truth
handed out by self-appointed arbiters who muse
on passing time and bleak insight, superiority assumed.
when I've discarded viral drives felt vital to my self and mind;
rewarded liars left entitled, kept what destiny assigns;
I'll edge and struggle forward toward decay that feels like home,
and slowly disassemble, disarray discarded blood and bone.
In time divided infinite like equal ticks of metronomes,
I'll find the apex of contentment disappointing to behold.

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