Pixelated thoughts can not express
the violence that powers these wounded hands.
As each twisted line slips away,
I am one awkward step closer to my fate.
Inside the wisdom of a tainted grape
I find no delusions, no detractions
from my malevolent realities. Instead
the pain ferments inside; a bitter crop.
Rage soothes me, but does not satisfy
the lurid desires of my shaded heart.
I live beneath a placid surface;
a cold and wavy face adrift in time.